


Amidst a Kingdom's Reclamation

by newyorktopaloalto



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Background Relationships, Drama, Espionage, Intrigue, M/M, Minor Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Romance, aggressive flirting, passive-aggressive flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9273356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newyorktopaloalto/pseuds/newyorktopaloalto
Summary: With only the clothing on his back, the dagger hanging from his hip, and the ring in his pocket, Bilbo Baggins found himself banished from Erebor.





	1. Establishing Minor Grievances

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and/or Peter Jackson 
> 
> This is my first Hobbit fic— special thanks to vegalocity, a long-time Hobbit fan and an amazing soundboard, for beta-ing!

The rot of infection pervaded his senses, the back of his throat swelling up in a useless gesture of empathy that he would otherwise indulge in, as he fought his way through the seemingly endless lines of tents that Dáin and the army of the Iron Hills had provided. Closer to the mountain, the heavily fortified royal encampment seemed a pittance compared to the looming visage it stood before. Guards, in the briefest moments of deigning to notice others through his own torrential afflictions, whispered hotly— their gazes heavy on his back and his spine straightened and his gait became deliberate, a yawning, hot thing erupting in his chest and through his veins the closer he got to his journey’s end. 

Each step lengthened against the sense that told him no matter how far he walked, he would never reach his destination. Considering the distance that still— even after being laid bare, crucified and found wanting, after a deep affection and an even deeper betrayal— stretched before him, the heat turned sharp with a feeling of foreknowledge. There existed no place in time wherein his actions held little consequence, but it was nothing more than through his own fault that he did not whisk himself back toward the west in the direct aftermath of the battle and the pronouncement of the continued life— if not tentatively offered— of the line of Durin. Could he be honest with himself— and how could he not in this place where the land held stagnant in its desolation and the wind carried both the coppery mark of death and the discordant thrums of mourning and forcibly moving oneself ever forward— he would admit that his continued presence was nothing more than a masochistic desire, wrought from a madness borne long ago in his ancestors blood, to face punishment for his actions. 

A narrowed stare caught his attention as he passed yet another wall of dwarven soldiers, and he caught eyes with the disgruntled dwarf that stood at the edge of the trod down path, his proverbial rankles standing more formidable than his armor clad countenance. As he turned away, his own look no more than a seemingly passing glance, he found himself hard-pressed not to notice the increasingly— assessing and found inordinately lacking— more commonplace reaction his very sight was met with. His vision roared and he felt the beginnings of a snarl build in his gut as he clenched his jaw, tight and demanding against the voracious beast that he had, all at once and with a striking clarity that sparked bright and encompassing, become; the despairing vastness of all that he had left behind would have to come later— he needed to burn for just a few steps further. 

His arrival to the tent where he had been beckoned, by the king whose command he could not help but heed, brought about minutes of waiting that was in no doubt to quell the incandescent fire just beneath his skin. The wait did nothing more than let the ever-present madness abate for wake of the realization that he had no regret in his deeds— traitorous as they may have been perceived, there was a deep-rooted knowledge in the fibre of his mantle that nothing less would have saved them all. What he did was a betrayal, there was a self-hatred that had yet to unfurl its roots into his mind, and yet he could only characterize it as one he would defend to his death— and too many times in the past weeks he had almost done so; the almost prophetic nature of this mindset was, in fact, not an overwhelming surprise to him but simply one he termed best to keep at bay lest baffled hysteria overtake him. 

He was shoved— jolted out of whatever rumination he had bound himself within— into the makeshift healing rooms, medicinal incense cloying his nose and eyes, and as he attempted to adjust to the rather abrupt change in scenery the tent flap closed, the dim light and musty air doing nothing, he was sure, for the healing of those sequestered within its bounds. 

“Halfling.” 

He snorted in the direction of the half-lit figure, taking a few steps closer until he could make out the details of the dwarf lying on the bed. 

“I am not half of—“ he started, the almost tired recrimination starting to fall from his tongue before he could start this conversation with something else— anything else. 

“Master Baggins.” 

Anything more he could say was stymied in the almost exasperated tone of Thorin’s addendum and his own sudden awareness that this meeting would go in no way that he was expecting. 

“Thorin.” It was hesitant, only coming when no further direction came from the other, letting the cavernous thing in his chest boil down to a simmer, his utter relief at seeing the other alive and cogent overarching all else. 

“You are well.” 

It came out as half a statement and half a question, the indelicacy of the tone almost making him snort. 

“Yes, I suppose I am. And you—?” He scratched his cheek, absently cataloguing the way Thorin’s eyes focused on the thin scabbing cut that now graced just above his fingernails. 

“I will live. Your cheek—“

“The healers say it won’t scar. What about your chest?” 

“I will live, Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo stopped himself from fretting on, forcibly removing his eyes from Thorin’s almost too-still form, the white bedsheets not enough of a contrast against the king’s skin for his personal comfort. Which, when he let himself think about it, was the damnedest thing— regardless of his anger, of his despair and terror of the dwarf in front of him— he still harbored an abject relief as the ranking irritation of his very existence lay speaking before him, tempered only by the infuriating worry that he was keeping something away from him. There was no use denying in that moment, Thorin grimacing at every shift in movement and Bilbo on the very edges of his sanity, that something was broken. 

“What about the boys?” 

Thorin’s surprise should not have come to a blow, curling in his stomach like a twist of berries not fit for consumption, and yet he found himself taking half a step back, before coming into himself. 

“I saw them!— lying there and—" Bilbo cut himself off before continuing. 

“— how are they?” 

“They, too, will live.” 

“Damn it all! Will they—“

“They will not be whole!” Thorin’s voice was blinding ice, a dull roar in the back of his ears as he was brought back, for a moment, to an entirely different place. “It was a war, burglar, and they will not be the same!” 

“That is something we all have quite in common, it seems, Master Oakenshield.”

He sniffed in a haughty nonchalance, the move that usually made bothering gossips turn heel only causing Thorin’s ire to ratchet itself up a notch. A vicious grin curled about the edges of his cheeks— Thorin’s growing rage could only make his own more resolute; at least the insufferable dwarf king was alive and well enough embroil himself with a righteous crusade and not feel terribly bad about accidentally committing regicide in their inevitable row. 

“But once more to the matter at hand, why did you send for me to speak with you? Though I suppose ‘send’ is a more flattering term for ‘forced by royal guards,’ but I shan’t digress.” 

“Explain yourself.” 

Bilbo rolled his eyes, praying to the Valar, any of them, to imbue him with just a little more strength; the dwarf king laying abed before him was more stubbornly bull-headed than any living creature should be— his stunning lack of self-preservation also made his continued survival vexing. Despite everything that had occurred in their lives, Thorin and the line of Durin must have been gifted a spectacularly brilliant stroke of luck by their Father— Thorin’s own nature, if nothing else, should have placed him dead years ago and Bilbo none the wiser about life-changing adventures with terribly improper and humbling traveling companions. 

“Well, the royal guard came into the tent in which I was residing, proceeded to inform me of your _command_ as to my audience, sandwiched me between two of them— and before I knew it I was being half-dragged along for nigh ten meters before I was finally graced with courtesy of letting me walk of my own volition. Of course, this small convenience was just that— I felt as though I would constantly trip over one of them, they were in almost unbearably close proximity.” 

Thorin, his carefully blank face the only clue to his apparent befuddlement in Bilbo’s explanation, hesitated scant moments and in his silence Bilbo made up to draw another breath— a seemingly innocuous gesture meant to denote the continuation of his previous digression. Winding up an injured dwarf did not usually, in even his most recent of encounters with them, send a pleasant thrill up his spine, but here he stood and delighted in watching Thorin’s eyes narrow in consternation and then widen in splendid irritation. 

“Explain your actions, hobbit, lest I send you back to your Shire with nary a provision for your journey.” 

“One would think my initial explanation would glean enough light upon the situation— please pardon my metaphor’s unintentional candor— for you to be able to comprehend my actions, _your majesty_.” He wasn’t the slightest bit proud as his hiss of the title came out more derisive than he intended; Thorin’s head reared back minutely, and despite himself Bilbo felt a dark satisfaction curl up in his chest, the hot thing igniting the coil until it, too, burned. 

His burgeoning sick enjoyment was doused— the emotion had lasted only seconds but the loss of it took his already uneven breaths further away from his conscious control— as his eyes tore away from the king’s face to the sudden movement in his peripheral vision. Thorin’s fingers were curled into heavy fists, clenching the bedsheets with a grasp tight enough for his knuckles to creak with the pressure. The tenuous control he had on his breath failed him the moment he saw Thorin’s fists strangling the cloth and could only feel the ache where, even now, bruises stood dark and vengeful against his neck. 

Anger left his body in a gust, the full gambit of the rest of his emotions trailing behind in his temper’s already ghostly trail. Stretched too thin and bereft of the tangle of ragedesperationsorrowangerhopepain that had kept him moving ever onwards, he almost completely missed Thorin’s next statement. 

“Enlighten me once more, Halfling.” 

The condescension of his tone coupled with his use of the term ‘halfling’ would have, even in the right state he was currently in, galvanized an acerbic response, but as he forced himself to look back up— he would face this waking nightmare like the hobbit he had almost forgotten he could be— Thorin’s expression stayed any retort he could have thought of. Because while there was anger, betrayal, ire, and even pain, there was also a yawning, desperate thing in which Bilbo’s own face must have looked like the entire time he had been standing before the king. The hot thing in his chest surged back and he realized, in a heady rush, that it was something deeper than rage— something cavernous and liminal and terrifically absolute— and Thorin’s gaze sharpened to glass the moment he recognized his now mirrored expression. 

“Why should I retell a moment I must suffer through in my disrupted nights for any creature’s benefit except my own?” 

Only that his statement came out unintentionally and overwhelmingly _tired_ saved him, he was certain, from furthering Thorin’s ire. As it stood, the dwarf seemed to deflate into his sickbed and he heaved a sigh, hand coming up to scrub at his lower face in a clear motion of attempting to think before he spoke. 

“In my madness— my greed,” he amended his words in a show of self-effacement, and Bilbo felt the asinine urge to defend Thorin’s madness from himself. 

“In my greed and paralyzing lust, my mind seemed buried. I— do not recall much of our time spent in the mountain before the battle.” 

His words scraped out of him, and Bilbo felt his throat grate in empathy for the gravel Thorin had obviously stuffed down it before his pronouncement. Bilbo had the creeping desire to deny him— walk out of the tent and let himself ask the elves of Mirkwood for supplies and passage as Thorin had promised him nothing should he refuse to speak— but he knew that previous words be damned, Thorin would not let him walk away with nothing even in the event of his silence, and he would not, in the knowledge that Thorin knew what had transpired but could not remember, leave the dwarf to torment himself with an incomplete painting in which the worst would only be projected onto. 

“I shall start then, I believe, from the beginning…” he hesitated before gesturing to the wooden chair next to the bed, only moving when Thorin, something incomprehensible in his gaze, nodded his assent to the unvoiced question. 

“The Arkenstone came into my possession in the debacle that was my second encounter with Smaug— though I had taken notice of your growing reticence, even with regards to your kin, I had every intention of handing it to you the moment I exited the mountain once more— but scant minutes after my find, the dragon took flight. 

“After that, well, the destruction and the thought of all of our impeding deaths quite shook the very knowledge of the stone out of my mind.”

He slapped his hand over his mouth as he let out a loud, vaguely hysterical, bark of a laugh. Thorin’s mouth turned down further than it had already been, and Bilbo did not have the wherewithal to interpret the change. 

“It was not until your— obsession— had grown, that I once more remembered.” 

“My greed.” 

“Your madness.” He shook his head to forestall any other interruptions. 

“And I knew the covetous nature of your madness would only allow for one thing. It was the one thing I had, but it was also the one thing I knew that I could not give— not if I wanted you to live, to see your kingdom and your family prosper, not if giving it to you would only exacerbate your affliction instead of breaking you free from its grasp.

“I do not regret my actions; if an apology is what you’re seeking, I cannot bestow that absolution upon you. What I did was a betrayal of you, your trust, and the Company— and I will submit myself freely to that guilt— but I have no hesitation in saying that I would do the same thing time and time again if it meant seeing all of you survive.” 

Pausing for a moment to collect himself, he continued after blithely ignoring his own dropped plot. 

“It took only hours after entering the treasury for a shadow to overtake you. After two days of ignoring all but which shined, you demanded an all-hands search for the Arkenstone. Sustenance and respite became secondary to your search and your expectation of the Company’s priorities was the same; you can quite imagine Fíli’s imitation of your speech after the fourth time you interrupted his meals with Ori.

“In those days I wrested them away, one by one, in a desperate attempt to keep them hale— or as well as possible in consideration to our severely diminished food stock and no knowledge on when our self-imposed siege would end— and I managed. Well, Bofur _was_ terribly put out when Balin succinctly informed him they would not yet be digging around the mines, but he seemed contented just lurking around the entrances after awhile.” 

He shrugged and offered Thorin an almost bemused, mostly wry, smile. 

“I mostly failed to get you away— I think you only let me whisk you off when you were on the verge of unconsciousness or dehydration. We were all wary of your anger, unpredictable as it was then, but I was the only one who you seemed to heed— no matter how little it actually was.”

Thorin cleared his throat. “I seem to recall throwing a box?” 

“A small chest, but yes; Óin wanted to do a final check on your breathing from your cracked ribs and you seemed to rather ill to the very notion, which is perfectly understandable considering Óin looked as though he would rather be conversing with an elf than performing your check-up. 

“Then the men came with the elves, we fortified, and your search finally broke into a dark yearning that I knew would not be sated with the mere recovery. I knew it before, I think, which was the reason I kept quiet in my speaking of the search for the stone, but it was that moment— the choice of death over parting with stone and coin, and the fanatical plans of how to keep it safe— in which I realized my only option. 

“It took almost a full-week, the deadline of war looming ever closer, and it wasn’t until Kíli was trying to persuade Bifur to trade cram for jerky that a plan formed.”

“Give the stone to Thranduil and Bard, promise them your share of the treasure, and assure them that I would trade your portion for it.” 

“Bard had no use for the stone and Thranduil, no matter how tenuous his claim, wanted only a few pieces of jewelry.”

Sighing to himself, he let a deprecating smile grace his lips. 

“And to think, the only place I went wrong with my plan was in the assumption that a jolt to your senses would knock you free from your maddened mind.”

“You should not have come back, master hobbit.” 

Bilbo shook his head. 

“I had to. I wanted to be able to explain myself and not from thirty meters below the battlements but next to those I was hoping to keep among the living. Your, ah, incensed reaction freed me from that fantasy.” 

“I do not—“

“Of course not, which is why I’ve been telling you. I don’t remember the exact words—“ which, while not a lie was definitely closer to that particular line than that of the truth, “—but it contained a lot of ’traitor’, ‘betrayal’, ‘treason of the most venomous nature’, hanging me from the battlements by my neck, threats, and eternal banishment.

“So I left, you declared war, and I could not tell you what happened in the mountain, or to you, from that point forward with anything more than secondhand knowledge.” 

“You rushed the end.” 

“Did I? I assure you that wasn't my intent— it’s just the fact that the bruises on my neck burn whenever I think about it for longer than a moment, and I wanted to be able to get through the rest of the story with breath left in my lungs; it would be quite the spectacle, I believe— my passing out whilst in the presence of a king.” 

His forced levity took a turn for the almost desperate by the end of his statement and as he comprehended his own words, far too late after leaving his mouth, a flush of mortified horror overtook his body and he felt his soul leave the physical plane for the briefest of oblivions. 

“What I meant to say was— it didn’t go quite like that, of course—“ 

Thorin held up a hand, lips pursed and eyes darkened, and Bilbo fell silent. In the quiet between the pair as Thorin composed his statement, he puzzled over the altitudes of his mental interplay— bounced from one extreme to the next with no hope of keeping up, he felt adrift in the uncertainty of both what Thorin’s words would be and his own reaction once they came. Blaming his volatile mentality on the lingering effects of his head wound would be easy, and not an untruth, but he also was duly aware that hanging on this precipice, with this dwarf, was nothing short of the summation of everything they had ever been to one another— if there could be anything left, after everything had been said and done. 

“I am aware that no apology I could make would take away my words and actions, and the effects of those they wrought on you, but if you will allow me to offer it— my deeds were in flagrant violation of both your contract and the personal esteem I hold of you, and though I am still angered, I know that what you did most likely was the determining factor of the continued survival of my sister-sons.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

Bilbo raised his eyebrow. “You may offer your apology.” 

A wooden spoon could have cut through the muggy stillness that permeated off of Thorin’s frame and Bilbo felt a tugging start of a smirk evade his control in the same moment he saw Thorin twist his lips into the beginnings of a snarl as his teeth clicked in lieu of whatever explicative he was about to spit. His instinct-based rage bled out as his form loosened, and Bilbo found it a marvel that it only took a solid twenty seconds for him to regain his former demeanor. 

“Master Baggins, I offer my sincerest apologies to you for not only my actions in my—“ he leveled a disbelieving look at Bilbo, “—madness, but also for the grievances I leveled upon you during our journey together. I know forgiveness will not come in this moment, but I do wish to attempt to fix what I have brought upon the both of us.” 

“Thank you.” He raised his hand to preemptively silence Thorin as he continued. 

“I wish to offer you my sincerest apologies as well, Master Oakenshield. Though I cannot have regret in the actions I took, I did betray you in a manner most venomous— of which I have a deep regret for. I know you cannot forgive me as well, but my wish is as yours— to try and fix, if nothing else, the breaks I have caused.” 

“I thank you, however I do believe your apology is—“

“Absolutely necessary considering the circumstances, I quite agree, thank you.” 

“I was going to say ‘unnecessary considering the circumstances in which your grievances occurred,’ but I am heartened by your continuing inability to let me finish a sentence.” 

Bilbo, in a show of benevolence he was unaware he possessed, deigned not to comment on the goading remark. This was not the time for an argumentative distraction, no matter to his fluctuating disposition that wanted nothing more than to just not ever bring up the subject again until the both of them were long dead and brought to the Halls. Let it be known, though, that Bilbo was no longer the gentle hobbit whose only despair in the journey was the arduous learning curve of handling a pony, but one who had faced death and survived more times in a handful of months than the entirety of his years before— he was a hobbit who had a care for others that extended past his underlying bitter selfishness, and though he had absolutely no doubt he would retain most of his negativities and idiosyncrasies, a looseness had developed in his mind somewhere between the Misty Mountains and the gates of Erebor. 

And so he continued forth. 

“Thorin, an apology is the least I can offer; I hurt you.” 

His words, as agonizing as they were for him to physically get out of his mouth, had an immediate and unexpected effect upon the other. Thorin, for all emotion Bilbo thought he had displayed before, simply crumpled before him. It took a long moment for the other to collect himself, Bilbo looking away from the king in both disquiet and a sense his gaze might be unwanted in his break. He spared a glance up at the sound of a throat clearing. 

“Master Baggins, your silver tongue will do me in.” 

“I am not lying, Master Oakenshield, believe you me— I should think, regardless of anything that may have happened, you know I am not that convincing a liar.” 

“Peace, burglar,” and the moniker now seemed to come with an exasperated fondness that had not been present even in their friendliest of moments, “I simply meant to express my amazement at what you say so simply.” 

“It is simple.” 

“I can see that.” 

Thorin’s words came out softer than usual and Bilbo glanced down to see the dwarf flagging where he was hunched against the headboard. 

“You should rest.” 

Despite Thorin and his attempts to sabotage his own comfort, Bilbo managed to settle the other fully into bed. He sat again upon the chair as Thorin’s face settled back into its habitual glower, ruined slightly by his drooping eyelids he tried to disguise as squinting. 

“We must finish our discussion.” 

Bilbo nodded, conciliatory, and reached out to briefly pat Thorin on the arm. His hand was caught by Thorin’s own as he pulled away and his fingers twitched in the other’s grasp. 

“You will be here tomorrow.” 

He nodded once more, sighing a bit as what should have been a question came out as a fact. 

“We will continue speaking then.” He squeezed Bilbo’s hand, obvious in his discomfort, and licked his lips before speaking once more. “I am still incredibly angry with you.” 

“I find myself hard-pressed not to commit regicide when I look upon you,” Bilbo agreed easily. 

“And I am still— finding myself unable to forgive you at this moment.” 

“As am I.” 

Thorin took a breath and Bilbo interrupted him before he could say anything else. 

“I have never been gladder to see someone alive.” 

The dwarf scoffed, unheeding of the tired spark that alighted his features after Bilbo’s words. “You are just happy to have me to fight with.” 

“Easy bait, your majesty— I’m not such a good hobbit as to ignore a painted target.” 

“I am gladdened to see you amongst the living as well, Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo gave Thorin’s hand a pat after loosening his grip, moving into a standing position from his chair. He waited until Thorin was as settled as his wounds would let him be, before speaking. 

“I am quite looking forward to our fight tomorrow, so please make sure to rest.” 

“As long as you assure me of the same.” 

His eyes closed against Bilbo’s whispered agreement, and even breaths soon became the only sound from the dwarf. Bilbo supposed he should have felt a shame at lingering whilst the other slept, but he found himself unable to be torn away from the fact that even in his anger and betrayal, Thorin still fell asleep before him, the only guards present outside of the tent. But then, he reasoned, there was comfort enough laying abed, obviously weakened, with a traitor at his bedside. And he,— well, a truly angry Thorin he would not want to be around for quite some time— he was bruisingly healing from the knowledge that it _was_ madness, that it was gone, and that a newly growing thing was taking root in the both of them. A snore undercut any continued serious thought and he rolled his eyes at the open mouth of the king; how anyone could take him seriously after that sight, Bilbo would never dare take a guess at— at least it was likely that only a small number had seem him in any such way. Making sure everything Thorin needed when he awoke was placed within reach, in a manner he became immediately irritated with himself for and yet he _could not desist_ , took up the last few minutes he felt he needed to see the other before he could tear himself away, and he finally did so with only the slightest of hesitations.

* * *

Outside of the hazy atmosphere that was the healing tent, he found himself squinting against the sun; the conversation, spanning eons in his mind, had most likely taken less than twenty minutes— it was, to his baffled surprise, still mid-afternoon if the sky’s position held true. The lack of guards hovering centimeters away from his body made his path back to his own tent a lot easier, and as he studiously feigned ignorance of the bitten off words and shuttered stares that heralded his presence, he let the chilled sunshine soak into his bones. He moved further into the center of the valley, wind biting at his cheeks, and though he knew that the dwarves from Iron Hills thought ill of him, he could not help but exasperatedly lament the fact that he would much prefer to be closer to the Company, thank you very much. 

The end to his journey was still quite a ways off, past the Men and through the Elves, but the promise of tomorrow’s argument made the path easier to trek. 

A cut-off shout made him turn, his hand reaching reflexively for the sword at his hip— forced vigilance on a months long journey— and the newfound instinct unsettled him. Was this to be the rest of his years? Every noise turning him inside out as he wondered where the attack was going to come from? Maybe, maybe— at least he would be prepared. 

As his eyes settled upon the source of the noise, his brow furrowed as his gaze was met head on. The dwarf, against every other reason to be shouting, was looking straight at him— Bilbo couldn’t stop the startled half-smile from appearing, even as his heart beat the slightest bit faster. Unsettled and unable to interpret the stare as anything other than barely concealed aggression, he turned his head away and continued on. Though he had anticipated a level of hostility, if only due to the fact that he was an outsider going to see a newly-instated king, this felt different— deeper; there were contingents of soldiers whose very base opinion of Bilbo seemed lead by malice. 

“Master Baggins.” A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and as he sagged to the left at the unexpected weight, he twisted his neck to look up. 

“Master Dwalin,” he greeted, shaking himself internally in his own disappointment— some instincts he fancied himself as having— a hulking, conspicuous, dwarf managing to get the drop on him was just embarrassing. 

“You need to have more care with your thoughts, something could happen.” 

“My da always scolded me the same— that I’d miss a fire if I were in the middle of puzzling something together.” 

Dwalin gestured for Bilbo to continue walking once more, stepping easily into place a half-step behind him. The dwarf shrugged at his questioning examination. 

“Piece of gold for those thoughts.”

Bilbo threw a smile over his shoulder. “Yes, you have quite a fair bit of that now, don’t you?” 

“Aye, and not a clue what to do with it all— be a gent and take a piece?” 

“If you impart upon me the real reason for your sudden magnanimity.” 

Dwalin nudged his heel with the toe of his boot to keep him at pace, and Bilbo felt his throat dry when he looked back and saw the hard-set to the guard’s face. Well, it seemed as though he were not the only one with the growing dread that their struggles were not yet resolved; a stiff upper lip, then, and ears opened. 

“Master Dwalin.” 

“Just a feeling, is all.” 

Another nudge, timed to be imperceptible to any watching, and Bilbo urged his gait to strengthen. As they passed groups whose glares lingered, Dwalin broadened himself out, tracking and cataloguing the soldiers’ reactions to his assessments. Bilbo found himself duly impressed and slightly ashamed of himself for it— after all, Dwalin _was_ to be the head of the Royal Guard, his intelligence was obviously not in question. Hobbits could, however, be likened to dwarves in that respect: judging books by covers, and in particular those which bore spines different to their own. 

“Are you going to escort me fully to my tent, Dwalin? I’ll have you be aware, getting lost in your blasted mountain was due to nothing more than insufficient lighting; could I have seen more than three feet in front of my face whilst bandying about with you lot, I would have been an expert in navigation— could have given tours.” 

“I just don’t want you getting lost and having some Man throw you in with their children.” 

“Infantilization of proper sized creatures _is_ an unfortunate side affect of their height. Regardless, my thanks for your continued vigilance.” 

Dwalin tilted his head in acknowledgement and Bilbo grit his teeth. The sooner they arrived at his tent, the better— the dwarf needed to speak with him in private, without being overheard even in the preliminary of stages— both he and Dwalin knew perfectly well Bilbo did not get lost during their stay in the mountain, and the other’s easy agreement to his extended invitation troubled him. But with only knowledge of Dwalin’s gruffer-than-usual countenance, Bilbo’s own observations, and the absence of Balin and/or Thorin present, it seemed as though whatever was happening had the need to be sequestered to only those considered vital. Bilbo would not usually consider himself among those few, especially in regards to issues pertaining to a kingdom he was not a part of, but Dwalin obviously had some use for him and his erstwhile position amongst the Company. 

The rest of the trek was silent, the sort that amplified loudly in Bilbo’s ears whilst the guttural tones of Khuzdul petered out in favor of the oddly accented Westeron the men spoke. On the edges of the temporary settlements lay the place Dwalin ultimately led them to, an unassuming tent close to his own that had him glancing in both directions before entering. 

“Just this once,” Dwalin responded to his unasked question, tying the canvas flap firmly to the wall to keep it closed. 

“What is this possibly about?” 

“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed— your false modesty has no place here.” 

“Nori!” 

Bilbo swiveled his head to the corner where the voice came from, taking a few seconds to spot the figure amongst the shadows. 

“If you hadn’t spoken—“ 

“You wouldn’t have seen me, that’s what I’m good at— same as you.” 

“Usually,” Bilbo pointed out, “but amongst these dwarves I feel like a spectacle.” 

“Which is one of our two current problems,” Dwalin grunted, obviously having had enough of Nori and Bilbo’s chattering. Nori stepped into the room fully, sprawling out on a chair as he reached the table. 

“Take a seat, then, and we’ll have ourselves a meeting.” 

Dwalin snorted but took a chair and Bilbo followed easily, folding his hands atop the wooden table as he waited for one of the two dwarves to speak. Of course, it did not go quite as easily as that, as the two stared back at him; he cleared his throat, fingers tapping out an uneven rhythm against the rough grain, and continued in silence. 

“So— what have you noticed?” 

“Oh!” Bilbo blinked a for a moment, “I didn’t think you were actually asking a question when you backhandedly impugned my character.” 

“Halfling—“

“No need for all of that, Dwalin, it’s not as if I will not tell you— I’m not as young as I once was and casting my mind back to these last days takes me more time than it used to.” 

“Hobbit—“

“It hasn’t been much, truly. Things in Khuzdul I couldn’t possibly begin to understand, heated glares, the subdued hush around the royal tents, and then some reactions to Dwalin’s stalking presence. To be perfectly candid, however, that last bit is more than likely to be a usual occurrence rather than something nefarious.” 

Nori’s laugh cut through Dwalin’s muttered, ‘this isn’t _funny_.’ The laughter cut out and Bilbo sucked in his teeth at the thinly-veiled contempt. 

“I know that whatever this meeting may entail concerns you heavily, Master Dwalin, but I never thought any of this to be in jest.”

“Then watch your words.” 

“Maybe I would if you would deign confide in me the blasted reason we are here in the first place— or would that take issue with this pantomime of secrecy?” 

Dwalin opened his mouth and Bilbo felt the table shake from where Nori had kicked the larger dwarf to stop him from speaking— he felt it to be the wisest decision. 

“The first of our problems is regarding yourself,” Nori replied, “your act of— treason— and the ensuing declaration atop the battlements is known by the soldiers.” 

“How?” 

Nori scoffed. “Rumors, whispers from elves, maybe Lord Dáin, himself— the list is endless and hardly what matters.” 

“The reaction’s important.” 

Bilbo nodded in agreement with Dwalin, casting himself back into his previous confusion and scoffing. 

“It is glaringly conspicuous as I recall back upon my various encounters as of late.

“But even _with_ obviously less than illustrious reactions, this is not the situation you are primarily concerning yourselves with.” He waved away their protests. “Your platitudes are unnecessary, comrades— I am well aware that only dire straits would have you both on tenterhooks such as these.

“So what, pray tell, would have the two of you like this?” 

Nori’s exhale was sharp and Dwalin cut his gaze to the entrance of the tent every couple of seconds. In their sudden inability to form a sentence Bilbo found his own answer. 

“Thorin or the boys?” 

“Thorin first.” 

Bilbo nodded absently and Dwalin continued. 

“It’s just a whisper—“ 

“Not a whisper, not yet,” Nori disagreed, “this is still something manageable.” 

“So a not-whisper of _what_? Blackmail, slander, overthrow?” 

“Murder— most likely.” 

The word felt heavy on Bilbo’s tongue as he tried to repeat Dwalin’s answer to no avail. Regicide— and then again once Fíli took the throne, and a final time for Kíli. The line of Durin would be—

“Who is in line for the throne after Kíli?” 

“Dáin.” 

Bilbo experienced a jolt of irritation at the non-reaction of the two before him. 

“I believe I am several steps behind the pair of you, and so it would be quite faster to simply tell me instead of dithering about in my ignorance— don’t you agree?” 

He sighed, resisting the urge to rub at his temples in frustration, as Dwalin and Nori did nothing more than exchange glances. Whilst he could understand the necessity of secret keeping— particularly those concerning literal kingdoms— this bait and switch of kernels of information followed by tightly sealed lips was—

“This is ridiculous.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I believe I said, ‘this is ridiculous.’ I do not pretend to know why it is that _this_ is the moment you’ve both decided to become frustratingly taciturn, but I assure you this is not the most fortuitous of situations wherein to perfect this particular conversational style.

“Especially given your previous adamancy of this not being a joking matter.” 

“Bilbo, no harm is meant, I assure you. We just needed to know for certain that—“

“That you were as serious about the matter as we. And, you know, that you won’t depart back to your westward pleasures the very moment you and the King finish arguing.” 

“Thorin and I would not be able to resist from fighting were Arda’s continued existence dependent upon it,” Bilbo replied reflexively, ‘tsk’ing at himself for the response. Really, what kind of hobbit _was_ he, sentences coming out willy-nilly like this. 

“Well that’s perfect, then, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose,” Bilbo hedged, rocking his chair back in a disjointed, nervous motion. 

The dwarves’ earlier statements finally settled in his mind and the chair’s legs hit the ground as suddenly as they had gone up. He frowned at the both of them, a flush staining high on his cheeks as the skin of his legs prickled. 

“I’ll also be magnanimous and believe your worry for the line of Durin clouded your thinking and is sole reason you would presume, after—“ he gestured around the tent, trying to encompass their entire journey into the motion, “— everything, that I am not serious concerning _any_ matter to do with—“

He stopped himself before he could go on further, twisting his lips into the closest he could manage to a smile. Judging from the piteous looks he found himself on the receiving end of, Bilbo had no doubt that were he looking in a mirror his expression would be nowhere close to what he attempting to convey. 

“You’re correct,” Dwalin conceded, the silence that had befallen the trio thickening into— what seemed to Bilbo— a palpable fog, cut through only with Dwalin’s statement. 

“About what? You telling me what exactly you need me for and what is happening? How surprising.” 

Dwalin turned to Nori and, in an obvious fit of pique, proceeded to insult Bilbo in Khuzdul. Bilbo was, of course, not an imbecile and had, in fact, spent months with a caravan of dwarves. He might not know what was being said, but he perfectly well understood the meaning behind certain words and phrases. Had he not been silently cursing the both of them the entire time they were involved in this meeting, he would be offended at the display; as it stood he was only mildly annoyed, the rest of him was a slurry of worry and frustration bleeding into a gaping wound that sapped the energy from his bones in a manner he could only akin to the high point of winter— sun short and tempers shorter, clawing their way up from what used to be to what was. 

“It starts like this, hobbit—“

* * *

A gust of wind had untied tent flaps sound like a multitude of birds taking flight, the irony of the cacophony not lost to Bilbo as he walked, once more, through the dwarven encampment; an ominous noise for an ominous meeting. His chin tilted up in defiance of the obvious ‘turn back now’ that filtered through his mind— for once ignoring signs he had grown up being told to listen to. Letting out his breath was harder than he expected, a miasma of disdain and acrimoniousness pervading through his sense of self. It did not matter that his actions— it did not matter; not in the way it needed to. 

Dwalin nodded to him, perfunctory with a hint of resigned bitterness, and Bilbo’s throat closed in on him at the thought of explaining to Thorin their hastily cobbled together plan. In no dream that he could imagine was this decision received amiably— indeed, he held steadfast onto the hope that he could manage Thorin from getting out of his sickbed and walking straight out of the tent in an attempt of direct confrontation. But for that, he could only wish for Thorin not being terribly intransigent, if only for the case that both Dwalin and Nori would back Bilbo up in their current avenue; he rolled his eyes at himself as he walked through the entrance— the light was still dim and a swell of irritation nudged his otherwise placid demeanor: how _anyone_ could heal in this environment was a mystery and he was half-tempted to take Sting out of its sheath and cut some windows into the heavy canvas— Thorin was the very definition of intransigence and Bilbo was acutely aware that a row was in his very close future. To be fair, and he would gladly admit this to himself, if all this matter turned into was a row between he and Thorin then he would consider it a matter well-handled. 

“Your Majesty,” he nodded decorously, arranging himself into the chair beside Thorin’s bedside. 

“Your modesty, as always, Master Baggins,” Thorin replied, voice and form both stiff in his prison of bandages; Bilbo felt a modicum of sympathy, helping the dwarf against the headboard into a position that in any other circumstance would be considered quite languid for a king, before remembering himself. 

Thorin waved off his half-hearted apology— in this, the mere preface of their conversation, the ire between the two of them was low. Bilbo quirked his lips up, smile tugging listlessly at the corners of his mouth as he contemplated the sheer totality of their entanglement; he would not falsely demure at Thorin’s regard for him, it was past the point of self-conscious insecurities, but he would also not pretend to know what, precisely, Thorin had in mind to do about it. 

“We must speak about what comes next.” 

“I was promised a fight.” 

“You were promised nothing, Thorin Oakenshield, but nonetheless a fight you shall most likely get.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you behave rationally for once in your life, and realize that whatever happens, I am correct in.” 

Thorin hummed, eyes narrowing at the sudden rhythmic clenching of Bilbo’s fists against the ill-fitted tunic he was wearing.

“What, then, comes next, Burglar?” 

“Intelligently? My leave.” 

The room was still. 

“Pardon me?” 

“The dwarves know of my actions amidst the Arkenstone— incident.”

Thorin, pain-addled and draught-filled as he was, did not immediately catch on. 

“They believe me a traitor, Thorin, and not for naught.” 

“How?” 

“I do not know, nor Dwalin and Nori, though it stands to reason: elvish gossip or Lord Dáin, himself.” 

“Though I have no knowledge into Dáin’s actions before or immediately after the battle, I do not believe that he would tell his soldiers of what transpired atop the battlements.” 

Bilbo grimaced and opened his mouth— to take Thorin on his word or to argue, he didn’t know, but Thorin spoke again before he could even start. 

“Regardless of my personal belief, I have not been unaware of the conversations that occur outside of this tent, and so we must address it. I will, in my first pronouncement, explain that only in your actions are we able to stand in Erebor’s shadow and call it reclaimed.” 

“Thorin, do not feel as though you have to—“ 

“Even in my anger I can see truth, Master Baggins!” He took a breath. “And though it pains me to think upon them, the war of anger and betrayal and relief still hot in my blood, I will not let _anyone_ think of you as traitorous for your deeds.” 

“So I thank you, of course, but Thorin, that is only where our issue begins.” 

“And the issue is so insurmountable it has the three of you convinced part of the solution is your leave?” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and Bilbo saw more than heard a heavy expulsion of breath from the dwarf. 

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, hesitant in the face of Thorin’s sudden amenability. 

“And what, pray tell, is this impregnable barrier?” 

At that moment Bilbo was confronted with the fact that Thorin was playing him. He experienced a moment of unbridled rage at Dwalin’s sure betrayal, before coming into the realization that Thorin, despite his foolhardiness, was not an imbecile by any means— the dwarf most likely was fully aware of the contention within the camp in spite of Dwalin’s hesitance to bring it up with his king. 

“From your expression I am quite sure that you have managed to deconstruct every argument I would try to use.” 

“I have slept far too frequently in these past days and find myself unable to do so now; Dwalin and Nori I have known for years, and I have spent much time arguing with you and your dizzying train of logic.” 

“Should I be offended?” 

Thorin shrugged his good shoulder, a small grin pulling on his face that Bilbo wanted nothing more to do than smack off. “You can be whatever you’d like, Master Baggins.” 

“My leaving—“

“They will come regardless of your presence, as the three of you well know. Forsooth, there are some who do not trust you, but plans for ending my immediate family’s rule has always been a concern— the reclaiming of the mountain only solidified their intent.” 

“I am fully aware of that, Thorin, but the fact remains—“ 

Thorin cut him off with a disbelieving laugh. “Spare me, hobbit, and be blunt: you wish to go back to your home.” 

“No! That’s not— Thorin, let me explain.” 

Thorin waved his hand imperiously, and Bilbo felt a scream building up in the back of his throat. This dwarf would kill him, and he was sure it would be much sooner rather than later; it might have been to his own benefit that his ties in the Shire were looser than considered proper. Especially when he—

“If you feel as though your explanation would do you some merit.” 

— spoke like _that_. 

“I will be leaving, Thorin,” he glared to forestall any attempt at argument, “and I will be sent off in quite a scene, which I am sure we will be capable of making. For all intents and purposes, I _will_ be gone.” 

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Oh? Did the three of us come up with a plan you did not think of?”

Thorin glared and Bilbo grinned at the upper-hand he had finally gained. 

“After my very public leaving—“ and this was where the true fight would no doubt begin, “— I will come back under my guise of invisibility and, during my days, place myself amongst the dwarves we believe most likely responsible for this plot.” 

“You are using the animosity towards your person in our advantage.” 

“Yes.” 

“With you gone, it will be easier to discern those who dislike your closeness with me from those that wish me and mine death.” 

“Yes.” 

“You do not like using your magic ring, Master Baggins.” 

“I don’t. But I will. Besides, it won’t be like our stint in Mirkwood— there will be place set up for me to recover during the times I need rest, Nori and I will be updating one another every other day, and, best of all, I will not have to worry about elves noticing their missing food.” 

Thorin blinked, three times and slow enough for Bilbo to find it nothing other than intentional. 

“That is the _worst_ plan I have heard in a long while.” 

“You need someone to find out where, exactly, this threat is emanating from. I am, at this juncture, the best option your kingdom has. And believe you me, this is a far sight less nerve-wracking than facing a dragon, and I— managed— that well enough.” 

A hum was his only response and Bilbo found himself, quite unintentionally, clearing his throat in an onset of nerves. Thorin’s reaction, or lack thereof, was befuddling and he found himself clenching his fists against his tunic once more. The dwarf’s triumphant look stilled any further explanation he might have otherwise blurted out with nary a thought to this _game_ they seemed to find themselves playing. Maybe this is what anger turned into, after the fire and hurt started to cool and they were communicating, however pettily spoken, once more. Maybe this is what happened when the only thing left was exhaustion and they were laid to their basest form. Maybe this would bring them forward, dragging weights behind them but willing to suffer this burden of duty. 

“Maybe this is all we have left.” 

Bilbo looked up, Thorin’s eyes weighing on him in their understanding. For all their previous miscommunication, Thorin seemed to understand all too well everything he said and everything he had not. But this— having two very different conversations at once, was not sustainable. 

“We don’t have enough time to—“ 

“Bilbo.” His mouth snapped shut at Thorin’s utterance. 

“Bilbo, I am aware of our limited time.” He struggled to sit up fully, Bilbo’s hands reflexively steadying the dwarf; he stilled as Thorin abandoned his pursuit and instead took Bilbo’s hands in his own. 

“Even with everything between us, and all that is yet to come— especially with regards to what will come, I must impart upon you—“ 

Thorin, I _know_ , you don’t have to—“ 

“Let me speak!” 

His biting words belied their desperation as hands squeezed, almost painfully, against Bilbo’s own. 

“I know you do not want to hear it, that you would rather wait until this ordeal is over, but as we have been hard-pressed to realize in the past weeks, we might not— 

“And I would rather say my part and have it in the open than to not have the chance to.” 

Bilbo could not find it within himself to parry a response. 

“I am angry, I have not forgiven you, but in spite of all that— in spite of everything, I find myself unable to imagine you anywhere but at my side.” 

The breath was knocked out of him at the sucker punch but he managed to wrest one of his hands away from Thorin’s grip to place it on the juncture where Thorin’s shoulder met his neck; the steady pulse beneath his fingers leavened his resolve. 

“After this is resolved I will depart for the Shire, settle my affairs, and come back to Erebor.” He paused. “If you’ll have me.” 

“Master Baggins, I would have no other.” 

“Well, good then,” Bilbo stated after the silence became too oppressive for him. “And— I would also— what I mean to say is— I’d like for you to be at my side— as well.” 

Thorin, much to Bilbo’s pleasured surprise, managed to restrain himself from outright laughing in his face at the mess which was Bilbo’s reciprocation. Instead, a seemingly no longer contained fondness took root in his expression and Bilbo hurried his eyes away from the sheer enormity of what had just transpired between them. Thorin, when he managed to bring himself to glance back at the dwarf again, had apparently gone through his own gambit of emotions and settled on a blank stare and flushed cheeks. Which was, much to Bilbo’s chagrin, entirely unhelpful and altogether vexing. 

“You infuriate me,” he concluded. 

“And you, me,” Thorin agreed. “When are you leaving?” 

Bilbo did not blink at the apparent non-sequitur. 

“Tomorrow— Nori and Dwalin still have to prepare, tell me where their best leads are, minutiae like that.” 

Thorin grunted. “And what will we be arguing about?” 

“Why the Arkenstone, of course.” 

“Of course.” 

Bilbo’s nose scrunched. “See? You’re already angry, it will work perfectly.” 

“Anger sounds different when it is also telling you to leave and never come back.” 

“It won’t be as horrible the second time, trust me. And while we are both aware the fight will most likely have more basis in reality than fiction, we are also aware that whatever we may say will have no effect on our— regards toward one another.” 

“You do continue to surprise me, Master Baggins.” 

“Begrudgingly, mind you, I will say the same.” 

Thorin laughed. “A great concession.” 

Bilbo grinned in response and had half a mind to leave on this high note, let it carry him through the rest of the day and then through however long it took for him to be able to stand at Thorin’s side, visible and— hopefully— no longer reviled by the people he would be living amongst. 

“Do you believe it will work?” 

“Do you know that doubting me only leads to you making a fool of yourself?” 

“Master Baggins—“

“Bilbo. I do believe that we’ve passed this point of stifled formality.” 

“Bilbo. Take care of yourself— I do not wish to explain your deeds to my people without your presence, so you must return whole and hale.” 

“I have never behaved rashly in my life,” Bilbo lied, Thorin’s eyebrow climbing improbably higher on his forehead the longer he let that statement lay between them. 

“And you will not visit me.” 

Bilbo had no idea if that was an order or a question, and so decided to answer veridically. 

“Visiting you might be my one rash decision.”

“If you believe you can argue without yelling.” 

“Thorin, you would be yelling. And I never said I would be visible.” 

“That is— decidedly unsettling.” 

Bilbo laughed at Thorin’s aggrievance and waved his cresting irritation away. 

“On the off-chance I am feeling rash and decide to visit you, I will make sure it is at a time when I can be visible.”

“You see? I agree to your foolish, horrible plan, and I only ask for little in return.”

“Yes, you are truly benevolent.” 

Thorin tilted his head in acknowledgement, and his motion brought Bilbo’s hand almost flush against his jawline. Bilbo realized Thorin’s shift was for this sole reason the instant his humor shifted into a piercing concern. 

“Explain to me everything that this _mission_ of yours requires— I do not wish to be kept in the dark on this matter any longer, and I am going to explain to Dwalin the same.” 

“Nori will not tell Dwalin everything I tell him,” Bilbo cautioned. 

“He will say enough. 

“And if this does not lead to fruition within a month’s time, we will think of something else.” 

“Thorin, it will take as long as it takes.” 

“A month, Bilbo.” 

Bilbo sighed— Thorin, it seemed, would never grow out of his imperious nature— he had truly hoped near death would knock it loose. A month was, on the other hand, more time than they believed was needed; it made sense that an assault would take place when both the king and protection was at its weakest point— in a month, both Thorin and Kíli would be mobile, with Fíli well on his way, and Erebor would be habitable. 

He brought his and Thorin’s hands from their resting place on the bed and up to his mouth. 

“A month,” he agreed, voice muffled against Thorin’s knuckles. He breathed steadily against his hand, gaze unwavering until the high bridge of Thorin’s nose flushed, and he lent back to give the dwarf some space. 

“Would you like to hear what we have, then?” Bilbo asked a few minutes later, softer than even his usual fondness for the dwarf in front of him. 

Thorin nodded and Bilbo felt the weight of his head fall fully on his hand. He moved to the edge of the bed without thought and leaned gently against Thorin’s good side, minding his own weight against his injured dwarf. He took a breath, letting the moment solidify and etch into his mind, and explained what would become of him in these upcoming weeks.

* * *

Thorin leaned heavily back against the headboard, Bilbo picking off invisible lint from the sheet as he waited for the other to speak, and took a few moments in what could only be ascertained as regaining his composure. 

“I do believe I have never encountered a plan fraught with such recklessness.” 

Bilbo snorted, inelegant and condescending. Thorin, obviously not having encountered his own hypocrisy, only raised an eyebrow in response— Bilbo pantomimed him and the king, bless his wretched soul, had the decency to look vaguely contrite. 

“Regardless of past actions— this is foolhardy.” 

“I am quite aware, Thorin, but in the way this hierarchical landscape is being played, if you stand there, before your kin, and absolve me of supposed crimes—“ 

“— it will only further distort who is dangerous and who is simply displeased, I am aware as well. It is just—“ 

He paused and Bilbo, being nothing more than a fool, felt his own breath catch in a twisted form of anticipation. 

“— it is just that seeing your face fills me with a frenetic rage, giving me the strength to heal faster. I am afraid of my ire cooling without seeing the object of my disdain every day.” 

There was a snap, Bilbo could almost hear it, as he imagined himself very carefully lifting his arm and punching Thorin in the nose. Thorin’s nose was bloody and hopefully broken, Bilbo’s fingers no doubt broken as well— it was almost worth it to execute this image into reality. He managed to refrain. 

“Do try your absolute best to retain your anger, Thorin Oakenshield, as with time and distance mine only burns more pointed.” 

He glowered, mumbling darkly to himself for a moment, before speaking once more. 

“In deference to fair play, however, I _do_ prefer winning arguments against the real you as opposed to the Thorin I thoroughly trounce every time in my thoughts.” 

“I should hope so, Master Baggins— the game is always more enjoyable when the outcome is unclear.” 

“Calling our anger a game, Your Majesty— is this our détente?” 

“War is a game, but does calling one so make it a declaration of surrender, or is it rather just another descriptor? I can call our issues for what they are, what we have been making them into, without it meaning anything more than that.” 

Bilbo tilted his head in acknowledgement, choosing for once in his life, to let the matter lie. Thorin cleared his throat and placed his hand on top of where Bilbo’s was still picking idly at the edge of the sheet. His hand stilled underneath the dwarf’s, and he expelled a heavy breath. This was it then, for hopefully not the last time, and he wracked through his mind to find words for the hot, twisted, ache that erupted in his chest at the mere thought of this hopeless dwarf. Thorin, as he had been of late, beat him to the punch. 

“In all of this, Bilbo, you have managed to capture me. Through our journey, through the battles, through this upcoming endeavor, you have and will continue to do so.” 

“I am a selfish hobbit, Thorin, and you are the one matter in which I do not find it worth hiding.” 

And that was not close to what he was attempting to convey, but more words and more time would do nothing except convolute what he already had no language to properly explain. He felt a desperation infuse within his bones, a yawning expanse of space inhibiting anything more from escaping his mouth. Time was ticking down— he placed his free hand on top of Thorin’s already occupied one, enfolding the dwarf’s between his own. 

“I find myself unable to properly express myself in a mannerly fashion, I apologize. Given time, I am sure words would come to me, but alas, I am denied this option. In lieu, and indeed, a poor substitute, I can only bring to you thus: 

“My lineage has a fire in their blood, one that fills you and leaves you wanting, keeps you bereft and consumes everything— I believed it ghastly and thoroughly unnecessary. Fire is a costly thing, we have both been lost in its face, and I did not want to leave everything I had maintained, everything I had believed and thought of in importance. 

“But I did. And though I do not know if this fire has made me better, has emboldened me in some manner I did not have before, or has changed me entirely— it does not have any matter. It brought me here, and that is worth it— I believe.” 

Thorin reached over, spine twisting with a creak and thoroughly ignoring Bilbo’s flustered protests to ’stay still!’, to press his hand against Bilbo’s knee. 

“I find myself hard-pressed to imagine what words would suit you better than those, Bilbo,” he answered after awhile, squeezing his knee once more before letting go, tugging his other hand out of Bilbo’s a moment later. 

“I _will_ see you on the other side of this,” he commanded— an order Bilbo was going to try his damnedest to comply with. 

“Of course,” he agreed, his voice cracking only the slightest bit in betrayal of his turmoil. 

“We shall endure.” Bilbo ignored the echoing crack in Thorin’s voice, nodding instead. 

Bilbo closed his eyes, casting his mind towards his reasons for doing this, what he needed to accomplish for Thorin to be able to _live_. He heard Thorin take a breath and panicked, a realization hitting him harder than any warg could ever hope to, and he had to say it now, before it was too— 

“Thorin, you _are_ my king.” 

Opening his eyes was easy, but keeping them open in the face of Thorin’s stun-slacked expression was almost agonizing. 

“And I find you to be _everything_ ,” Thorin replied, low and fierce and brighter than Bilbo had seen him since their reclamation of the Lonely Mountain. 

This time he kept his eyes open, Thorin’s gaze almost heady as he took another breath in. 

“I have given you more than ample opportunity to bestow upon me a proper apology, halfling, and in fact have paid diplomatic deference to you and your people in acknowledgement of these cultural differences. Indeed, I have been more than fair in our dealings— your insolence, your utter treachery still persists, and I find my generosity depleted in the face of your wretched and treasonous deeds. So thus your freedom in Erebor is once more revoked; if any set eyes upon you in my kingdom a prion cell is the next place you will find yourself. Take your leave, nothing upon your back but for what you wear, and begone.” 

It was roared, loud enough for Bilbo’s ears to ring; he was positive the entirety of the encampment would have heard Thorin’s pronouncement. He took a step back, eyes locked onto Thorin’s as he moved as slowly as he dared to the front of the tent. Finally turning around, he squared himself and parted the canvas door, Thorin’s final, ‘Dwalin, follow that traitor!’ echoing through his mind. 

Dwalin fell into step behind him, hulking and more intimidating than even the first night Bilbo and he had met one another. The tacit permission from Thorin had the soldiers blatant with their jeers as he passed, and were this any other situation, were he more connected to his body and not already playing a part, even he would succumb to a minute flinch at the sheer intensity. He wished that detractors to Thorin’s rule had not been planting seeds of doubt into otherwise surely rational minds, he wished that it were not _he_ whose presence muddied the water and in that regard he wished he wasn’t the perfect one to help diffuse the situation. In another world, he reasoned idly as his brisk pace brought him closer to the edges of the dwarven camp, the only issue would be due to the Arkenstone— in which case Thorin’s grand idea of a pronouncement to praise his deeds would work, and his tenuous situation would have had more of a foundation. 

This was not, however, another life, and as he reached the edge of the ever depleting elven convoy, he shook himself from his ruminating. Behind an outcropping of rocks, the path to the decimated Laketown no longer in sight of the dwarves, Dwalin cleared his throat. 

“You know what to do from here, Bilbo. And in a month all this will be worthwhile.” 

Bilbo, in turn, nodded and flashed Dwalin a grimaced smile. Less than a month, if Bilbo had anything to say about it. 

“Please make sure Thorin doesn’t accidentally kill himself due to overworking, if you would. And make sure that everyone else is fine, as well.” 

“Peace, burglar, I will make certain of it.” 

Bilbo nodded again and reached into his pocket, clearing his throat in a fit of butterflied nerves, and slipped the plain golden ring he took from it onto his finger. He waited, counting out the half an hour he needed to stay, before getting up and making his way back towards the dwarves. 

Now all he needed to do was stay silent, vigilant, and have belief in Nori’s assertion that treasonous conversations would be spoken of in the dwarves’ secondary language— one that those from the Iron Hills would have less of a grasp on than their Ereborian counterparts. A secretive language for a secretive topic; Bilbo almost snorted to himself at the inherent cliché— it would be humorous were it not irritatingly effective thus far. But that is why he was there— fluent in Westeron and well-versed in being unnoticed— these skills every Hobbit possessed by their early years were the difference, now, between Thorin, his heirs, and their untimely deaths. 

Another situation he would find humorous, were it not devastatingly tragic.


	2. Denying the Antecedent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Were it not for the obstinate, insufferable, utter wreck of a king that was Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo would be— well, he would be many things. The thought stilled him. He would be many things, none of which he could now consider to be better than what he had become._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, commenting, &c.! I really appreciate it, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story! 
> 
> Special thanks to vegalocity, for beta-ing this and listening to my inane questions and writing processes. 
> 
> On a final note, this chapter is definitely Tolkien-esque. So, you know, take that as you will.

Rain swept down atop the hastily-constructed soldiers’ barracks, waves of storm turning to drizzle and back once more— the atmosphere inside became quickly stifled, every exhaled breath contributing further to the damp which had been spreading through the camp at an almost alarming rate. Dwarves, Bilbo had been graciously admonished several times, did not experience sickness— at least not in a manner that rain and cold could exacerbate— but they _could_ suffer the indignities that which said weather caused; Bilbo’s pressing worry had little to do with the weather, in and of itself, but the reaction thereof— irate soldiers, a politically ambiguous Lord, and an ailing King was, unequivocally, a maelstrom in the making. 

Settled into a corner of a divider— the canvas at his back doing nothing to prevent the chill from seeping into his spine— with his hand the only barrier keeping his head from slumping forward, Bilbo listened to the increasingly-familiar tones of Khuzdul with a palpable boredom. By the end of this venture, he considered, the dwarves would not be able to whisper about him without receiving a scathing retort in their own secret, though growing ever less so by the day, language. The rain had not, much to his consternation, abated since mere hours after his arrival at the encampment— that had been four days ago, and nary a treasonous murmur had been overheard in the interim. If the downpour would let up, even for mere hours, this forced close co-habitation would be loosened as dwarves wandered and worked outside of the confines of their sleeping quarters. As it was, however—

As it was, he found himself holding onto his equanimity by the slightest of threads, on further alert than even he had ever been subjected to in the Mirkwood due simply to the fact that he could not leave— the tent flap was tied down and he could not wait by the entrance as it was one of the few open areas in the confined space— there was no feasible way for him to exit inconspicuously. He was going to miss his rendezvous with Nori once more, and a fissure of discontent stumbled through him, inelegant and dashing his breath away; with Bilbo’s horrifically ironic luck, Nori had discovered that the group Bilbo was presently tailing held no plans of note except vituperative remarks against the king, and thus they would have to resort to reconnaissance without any solid information. Which would, he reasoned in an almost disconnected paranoia, put their chances of finding those truly responsible for the as of yet uncommitted actions closer than comfortable to their assumed deadline. Before the month was out, but for a plan like this to stay both quiet and successful the perpetrators needed _time_ , placing their actions towards the latter half— and Bilbo, already four days in, had not gathered a shred of information worthwhile; he had time, more left than he had wasted, but as the hours lengthened further into mid-evening and the cold in his bones seeped, inexorably, deeper into his body, he found himself flagging and stretched thin. 

Unable to contain himself from huffing out his frustration, he found a minute gratefulness to the perpetual noise the soldiers exhibited in— at least in his current scenario he was able to make a modicum of sound without the worry of delicate elf sensibilities detecting his presence at every breath he took. This comfort, much to his displeasure, did not extend him to the arms of sleep— once more a bitter friend of insomnia, he found himself deliriously pleased in his lack of diminished mental acuity. It was, he supposed, a side-effect of wearing his invisibility ring; he was unable to muster a thankfulness within himself for that— the benefits of being invisible was quickly becoming negligible in the disquiet of his wearing it brought about. 

He could not, in truth, linger upon thoughts of his accursed ring— his mind casting too deeply upon it inevitably led him into a raw possession that mirrored, in a wild-eyed rage, Thorin’s madness. With nothing more than a creeping dread, a battle of wills with something that could not be his own consciousness, he came to the decision to part ways with the seemingly innocuous object— or, more likely and better suited to his needs, he would just no longer keep it on his person. Before that inevitable moment, however, he needed to cease his thoughts about the golden band and _focus_. 

Erebor— because Thorin _was_ Erebor and the kingdom, him— found itself in the hands of two dwarves and a hobbit. The inherent absurdity of the situation overtook him in a rush and as he struggled to keep himself from laughing in a hysterical attempt to stave off his panic, he recalled with staggering clarity why he had been letting his mind drift off in the first place: in the past hours he had been unable to ruminate upon his larger mission without adrenaline coursing through his veins and nausea creeping up his esophagus; the minute details he could mull upon— the verisimilitude of his reasons for diving headfirst into a overwhelmingly gargantuan plot— but as soon as he thought about the sheer impact his presence would bring, on a kingdom-wide scale for the Valar’s sake, panic would, undoubtedly, consume him. 

What he was doing, what he was attempting, was diametrically opposed to his paradigm of even six months previous— he found himself thinking, not for the first time on this journey and only when he was behaving absolutely foolishly, that he had more Took in him than he would like to become common knowledge. Luckily, the only beings who would care to know of this venture belonged to the race of dwarves— who, unlike hobbits, tended to run headfirst into foolish ventures and might find his actions prudent; his younger and more naïve self would find the entire matter no less than terribly enthralling. As it were, he could only hold onto his staid demeanor by his fingernails— it was not unlike hanging from the literal precipice atop the Misty Mountains— and pray for blessed respite. 

But no, rest would come whence he ended his quest victoriously, and no sooner would he find himself in want of. His position, however untenable it seemed in his highly-strung mindset, was liminal— they would not find success without him; he cursed, once more, the beat festering in his veins at whose behest had him _volunteering_ for what was obviously a prolonged bout of insanity. 

Were it not for the obstinate, insufferable, utter wreck of a king that was Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo would be— well, he would be many things. The thought stilled him. He would be many things, none of which he could now consider to be better than what he had become. Quelling another bout of ill-timed laughter, he pulled the sleeves of his jacket down to his fingertips and pressed the fabric heavily into his closed eyes. The pressure grounded him— he could almost see color when he pressed his eyelids hard enough, pinpricks of light that he could imagine flashed before him in greens and pinks. He smiled, briefly and with his teeth clenched so tightly he felt his jaw crack, at the unexpected— altogether too expected— spark of blue that came with it as well. 

Well, then. 

How simple words, lost on his tongue and dead in their tracks, could betray him so— because at this moment he comprehended what he needed them to be— and with heavy canvas against his back he felt himself settle into a dissociative peace. At least, he supposed, he would know exactly which scathing words he would bestow upon the king when next they met. 

He was saved from his musings by a discordant screech, the vibration hanging in the air longer than a ill-tuned E-string could ever aspire to harken to, and the following protestations at the noise. A large cook-pot was being attended to by the tent entrance, and as one dwarf started a fire beneath the tepid water, another opened the entrance to the tent for ventilation. Bilbo, frigid air rushing to all corners of the tent in seconds, took a breath through his nose and stood up. The soldiers, grumbling about the light drops of rain that fell through the now opened flap, hunkered down into small groups and, excepting those helping the meal progress along, settled into sitting with their backs turned to deflect the rain. 

This was, Bilbo discerned, his only chance to leave the Valar-forsaken tent; in the morning, outside of the common walking areas, he could time his re-entrance into the tent without a pacing dwarf tripping over him. Shaking out his limbs, he watched the scene for a few moments before picking his way through the pallets. 

The open air had him almost weeping in unadulterated relief— he would linger here, for nary a minute, and let the ever-worsening weight lift itself from his shoulders— the appellation ‘a cleansing rain’ seemed befitting as the shower turned his clothing like tack to his skin. As his proscribed time passed, he forced his legs to move and trekked to the edge of the camp. The gravel and hard-pressed dirt beneath his feet did not lend itself to smooth walking in more temperate of climates, but in the deluge the gravel’s coarseness lent wonders to both not leaving tracks and keeping his head from hitting the ground as a result of slippage. He moved swiftly, his contentment in being able to _move_ seeming quite incongruent to his surroundings— as he found himself invisible, however, no one could see him and therefore no one could deign comment upon his peculiar amiability towards freezing rain. 

His pace slowed as he caught sight of his and Nori’s designated rendezvous point; ostensibly a tent for diplomatic meetings, it sat unused as whatever needed appointments were taken to Thorin’s medical tent. In a show of good will toward their neighboring kingdoms, much to their plan’s benefit, construction was more significance than anything— and so in becoming overlooked and un-utilized, the tent was a veritable safe haven for the duplicitous game they found themselves apart of. 

Thorin seemed to be, frustratingly— and Bilbo could imagine his taunting, smug face absolutely perfectly— correct once more: the war he found himself entangled in _was_ a game— but that did not make it any less deadly. Maybe, after he received some tenable news, he would find himself within the king’s tent for an assignation— as he continued to stumble into situations where he was relenting to Thorin’s wisdom, he felt the need to speak with the dwarf and remind himself of the illogic in which the king ensconced himself. Of course, he conceded as he drew closer to his night’s dwelling, he, himself, was firmly settled into unsound logic which— no matter what angle he managed to wrench out of his mind— could not be reasoned away as anything other than inherent idiocy. 

Despite the crispness that permeated the atmosphere— enriched with the moisture the rain provided— he felt ragged as he reached his destination. His hand touched the tent flap, ready to part the canvas and enter, before he remembered himself and headed to the side. Slightly below his eye-level laid a ventilation slit that, with some finagling, Nori had managed to unobtrusively widen— its sole purpose, in the present, was for subterfuge and Bilbo hunched himself down to peer into the hole. After confirming the tent was uninhabited, he brought himself, body slowing in foreknowledge of rest, to the front once more; turning in a slow circle to make sure no dwarves were watching from the outside, he gripped the flap and entered. 

Tying the knot to keep the entrance closed was done by rote— as the quiet of being alone hit him he had become shaky. He moved, stiffly and with a creaking in his limbs he had not experienced since the direct aftermath of the battle, to the chest in the corner; a decorative piece usually ascribed to the presumed profligate nature of the dwarves, the chest served a multitude of virtues to three individuals in particular. Bilbo, after a brief moment of complete madness in forgetting which pocket he had put the key in, opened the ornate lock and, in his haste to reveal the contents within, threw it to the side. It hit the ground with a dull thud and was promptly disregarded. 

A note lay on top of a bundle— Bilbo’s mouth watered as he imagined a meal other than the meagre cram and jerky he had placed on his person as emergency rations— and he picked it up to read before seeing what actually was contained beneath. Strangely angular Sindarin greeted him and he grimaced in layman linguistic disgust at the shorthand he had taught to Nori. Though the dwarf was by no means enthusiastic about learning an elvish dialect, even he had begrudgingly admitted its usefulness as a code betwixt himself and his spy. 

_No meet. No news. Meet usual._

Well, at least Nori and Dwalin still believed him to be on the right trail, if nothing else had come from their time spent. He sat against the chest, all his limbs seeming to fail him at once, and rested his head against his hand, elbow perched precariously on the open lid. Not a soul was present in this tent aside his own—

He let the ring slide off of his finger— ignoring it as it hit the ground at his feet— and let himself weep. Frustration overwhelmed him and, with a gasp, he buried his face in his knees, hand gripping his hair so tightly he felt his scalp burn— without the ring pain felt real. His breath choked out on a laugh and he dug his fingers in harder, feeling the flash points as strands of his hair were ripped out by the sheer force of his grip. The rock that had been lodged in his throat since that morning loosened infinitesimally, and as his eyes opened against his tears and he could see the color of his pants— faded and dirty as they were, the rock settled back into his stomach where it ordinarily resided. 

“Cease this nonsense,” he commanded himself, the hiss of his words virulent and, unequivocally assuaging none of his hysteria, biting. 

In true form, his self-recrimination had absolutely no positive effect on his present demeanor— indeed, his breathing took on a hitching quality and he, now imagining himself a mere spectre happening upon this sorry scene, found he looked affrighted. 

One day, he reasoned— panic and resolution coiled tight in his muscles and desperately vying for his attention— one day he would discover himself handling his emotions in a healthy way; the divergence from his normalcy would no doubt shock him. Hopefully to his demise. Acknowledgement of his own emotional failings, moreover, _did_ tend to abate his mental incoherency; Bilbo found his crying less desperate and more releasing as the seconds pressed ever on— the time he had never enough for what he needed. 

Clearing his throat to prevent mucus from traveling down his throat, he promptly spat onto the floor and wiped at his face with the inside of his sleeve. Panic in an immediately unthreatening situation had always been a close acquaintance of his, and he felt a rueful fondness in the knowledge their acquaintanceship had not dissipated in consequence of his journey. These would be the last minutes of hopelessness he would permit to overtake him— when all that lingered of his attack was a band around his chest, then Bilbo would regroup with himself and take stock of his needs— and he embraced his utter uncertainty with a disquieting aplomb. His logic was oxymoronic in some manner, Bilbo would find himself a sure bet, but he was unable to entrap the erstwhile thought and pin down his misstep; he had the sobering realization that his oxymoronic logic and subsequent incomprehension indubitably stemmed from the mad decision follow thirteen dwarves to lands happily untraversed by generations of hobbits. 

So here he sat— clinging onto a fragile, tenacious hope with bloodied fingers and torn ligaments— still shaking in the last vestiges of mental instability. Because, of course he ventured to parts unknown— his asinine remarks to a wizard many years ago hit him with a startling clarity; this was not destiny, but something altogether more damning: a conscious choice made at a young age, carried through maturity as nothing more than a unrelenting wistfulness. Everything that had become of him— everything this would make of him— was due to an unflagging conviction that had resided in his person, stagnant until the dwarves’ siren call of _home_ ensnared him in a haunting totality. 

And with altogether too many epiphanies in his introspection, Bilbo was decisive in his next plans: sustenance and then rest. Start again, invisible and ignorant, on the morrow.

* * *

Bilbo awoke to the distant trilling of mountain finches— the birds having settled into the craggy outfields of the mountain scant days after the wyrm had been slain, as if sensing the end of the desolation— and the aches his body relented to in his sleep. He grimaced, opening his eyes against the pre-dawn light was more arduous than anticipated, and a spike of heat flashed through his head, his senses greying without aid from his ring. A migraine, then, and nothing to do for it— he had functioned despite this ailment in his past, but never with the stakes for his inattention so high. 

A series of remarkably lurid expletives left him in a stream, and he groped, eyes shutting tight once more, blindly for the waterskin Nori had provided him; he took small sips, throat constricting painfully against every swallow, in an attempt to settle his nausea. He had to breathe, open his eyes, stand up, and endure. Enduring, if nothing else in this game he called existence, he was adept at; enduring, and then— when his vision settled and he could walk across the camp without falling— biding time until the scales tipped. 

Allowing himself no longer than he had already taken, Bilbo heaved himself upwards, momentum overshooting his goal as he tipped— balance teetering on the edge of precarious— before righting himself. His head imploded at his movements, eliciting a piteous groan and the throb of every muscle in his body contracting in terribly precise unison. He muttered vituperatively for his limbs to cooperate with him, which, despite their reaming, did not acquiesce with his plans. Stiffly, mentally parsing out what body parts would give him the most difficulty in conjunction with his migraine, he hauled himself to his feet, only using the chest— much to his pride and bafflement— minimally in his journey to standing. Struggling against his his own body’s betrayal was hallowing— as his vision became seemingly incandescent in his brain’s meagre attempt in processing information— but it seemed inadequate to complain, his gaze clearing and— in what could only be happenstance— lingering upon the glint of his invisibility ring half-buried as dust settled around it. 

He did not know what grievances would await him once he donned the ring once more— the pain, he supposed, would be manageable; he was unaware of what would transpire with his vision and nausea, however, and a trickle of unease seeped through his cotton-stuffed thoughts— could he stay in this respite, he undoubtedly would, but the morning dawned and with it the sun. The rain having stopped in the time between his sleeping and waking— Bilbo wondered at his own inattention, as the months had progressed he had awoken at every atmospheric and auditory shift— he heard the exaltation of the dwarves as they started about their own mornings. 

Soft cussing left his mouth as he hastily stuffed his already prepared packages upon his person; missing something of importance was the veridical reason he did not usually partake in sleep longer than a brief nap during these times of mortality confronting situations, and he sent up a fervent prayer that his targets had not eluded him in his distraction. Bilbo _would_ be the one of their trio in, to borrow parlance from his comrades, completely fucking up. Cursing himself for his body’s overzealous desire to sleep, he dragged his eyes across the tent to make sure he was not forgetting anything of import; with nothing missing from his person and nothing laying upon the floor— apart the chest lock and his ring— he let himself take a steadying breath. 

This, too, would pass. Soon, he imagined idly, clicking the lock into place and blinking hard against the consequent vertigo his actions caused, soon he would be able to rest, be able to sleep, and be able to live. He could leave, right now and with none the wiser; he would not leave, would scarcely entertain the thought, for the sobering reality: 

It would not be living, he had decided this in staid resolve and what seemed to be years ago, if it were not in the mountain he had helped reclaim. It would not be living if it was not with the dwarf he claimed as his king. It would not be living until he did his damn job and thwarted plans of regicide. 

The ring was heavy in his palm and he ran his fingers through his hair, once and stifling a tired sigh, before slipping it on. His vision swam, focus shifting in and out as his already overtaxed mind figured out what, exactly, to do with the magical mathom. Finally, his swaying lessening to an almost imperceptible level, his eyes cleared; with his migraine impacting even the powers of the ring everything in his view was its usual distortion— accompanied, much to his abject consternation, by hot flashes of lights dancing in his peripherals. It was altogether novel and altogether vexing. 

The soft haze of the brightening sun assaulted him in defiance of his present lack of color perception and he felt his blood pulse achingly through his veins. More than ever he believed that this would kill him. He found himself unmindful— or, more likely, unheeding— of this notion, and followed the sound of the swelling chatter. 

Though he could not see the medical tents, he found his attention wavering in their general direction every few moments in his trek to the barracks; it would do him no good, he scolded to himself, to think upon anything other than what he needed to be doing— a task turned arduous by his currently limited physicality. Turning his attention, staunchly and with more regret than he would like to admit, Bilbo wound himself through wakening dwarves forward and to his desired location. 

Before making his way into the tent where— he supplicated with fervid hope— his mission guilelessly awaited its inevitable demise, he swallowed past his lingering inhibitions and reminded himself that this plan was the only one they envisioned successful. No matter his ailments, no matter his doubts and misgivings, he would walk the road, ever on, until he cleared the trees. 

Following directly behind an entering dwarf, Bilbo only just managed to clear the swing back of the canvas by dodging low and to the right. He straightened out his waistcoat despite knowing none would see him disheveled. His gaze went immediately to the space the group of five he was tailing had claimed, and— his luck effervescently vapid as always— found them gone. The rest of his visual sweep garnered much the same, and a self-deprecating rage overtook him in a compounding series of volleys. 

First order of business, then: locating his targets ere they elucidate their plot. Bilbo just had to locate five dwarves within an encampment of hundreds— his innate skill in finding hidden things would do him more than adequately in this game of cat-and-mouse. Would it be easier, or more challenging, to ferret his prey out with the aforementioned hunted unaware of the game?

* * *

Definitively more challenging, he concluded, as he passed the second hour mark of his search. More challenging and more irksome and more any adjective he found himself bandying about at this juncture. Had he been unawares of the dwarven veritable inability to both disappear and dally about with magic, he would assume they had perfected a means of invisibility— Bilbo’s current predicament could only attest to the irony of his line of thought. 

Just because he was small— and really, he was perfectly average sized, thank you, Bofur— and light-footed and able to literally turn invisible with nary a moment’s notice, he was sent into this demonstrably asinine endeavor; the invisibility, to be fair, was the most probable reason he found himself— hours later!— with drying mud up his calves and none the wiser as to where to head next. Nevertheless, he continued trudging along the edges of the camp, hasting himself away as figures moved within a metre or so of his person. As he craned his neck about in every which direction, he experienced a brief flash of gratitude that there existed absolutely zero living creatures who could see his manner in thus. 

Khuzdul washed over him— his face flushed, feeling abashed and hesitatingly guilty about his increasing understanding of the language— and Bilbo perked up as the sobriquet the company had assigned to him was heard over the rest of the cacophony. The first time— the first few hundred times— the barked ‘burglar!’ in Khuzdul had been nothing more than a way to de-personify the Hobbit whom the dwarves were leading to certain death; Bilbo could not recall the first time he had been called that with begrudgingly amused exasperation, most likely after the troll den in their— and his own personal— realization that he was not entirely milquetoast when he found himself in an emergency, and the way he instinctually turned to the source of the noise seemed to be an entirely subconscious action. 

Bilbo’s mouth pinched in disappointment as he cast a sidelong look at the stranger who had been talking to his fellow compatriots— it bespoke of his ever-evolving, most likely pernicious, attachment to the dwarves he had been trailing these past months. Absolutely pernicious, he amended ruefully as he faced forward once more and continued his trek; though he had done what was both necessary and sufficient, with not a smidgen of regret to be found, he found himself wondering if _this_ was, in actuality, materially equivalent to his deeds. Not bloody likely, but had he not decided to quit remanding himself just a fortnight ago? The battle had been borne and he had pushed himself to face justice— whatever visage it bore. 

Was this, then, justice? 

The bane in his gut belied its agreement to what took his brain quite some time to understand. He had been wondering if his actions were regarded disparagingly enough to warrant a cosmic justice— the Valar seemed to believe so, but he still found his actions negligible for the end result. That was where the dilemma came in, he supposed— were end-point means distributively just? Bilbo had never pretended to be the patron of morality— he found most of his actions to be amoral or ostensibly moral— most of his good deeds were done in a sense thereunto he benefitted from the action in some manner; he had been, and the thought did rankle him, a scaramouch. 

He idly worried the ring around his finger and spared a glance down towards it. Something had become of him, and while Bilbo could, and would, attribute some of it to the very ring he presently relied upon, he also had to acknowledge that these thoughts had always been lingering in the edges of his mind— a prophetic flash of being called ‘mad’ whispered past through the wind and his mouth twisted in a facsimile of a smile. 

Even here, with undeserved justice beseeching him into positive obligation— to do _something_ — he found himself emboldened; Bilbo had defied everything, was paying the price, and still found what he did, what he was doing, conscionable. His afeared madness had come into his flagging mentality and coalesced into everything he had been repressing— overtaking and engulfing. Perceived cosmic justice had absolutely nothing on what he would do to keep them all from tipping over. The madness, the wanderlust, needed to kept him grounded. 

It needed to keep him grounded, and in that he needed to _think_. He felt himself running out of time— every second away from achieving his goal was another chance to hear the trumpets of the dead. 

A dwarf passed, scant centimeters from where Bilbo was currently fretting and he felt his entire body tense in anticipation of contact. The footsteps faded out in a haze of white noise and Bilbo wanted nothing more than to let himself perish in the very spot he was rooted to. 

Circumjacent to himself lay a veritable army and presently he stood, agape and pondering away at nothing more than trifles. Lest his rumination carry him ever closer to his demise, he sidestepped the remaining metres to an alcove between two tents— stress flowed through him and with every bright pulse that sparked in the back of his sight, the picture of where his targets had ensconced themselves drew itself ever clearer; it was nigh improbable that Bilbo had not forwent all else and headed to the scraggly copse astride the rocks snug against the back of the middle of their encampment, but here he stood— above all else, too far away to be of any use should anything verily untoward occur. 

Regaining his footing on a stumble when he turned heel, he made his way to the outcropping behind the tents containing the line of Durin. They would not act now— this thought circled around his desperation, the only thing keeping him from sprinting and, more than likely, giving himself away to the host of dwarves that thought _him_ the treasonous one. They would not act now, they have not had enough time to ascertain if their plan would result in folly or success; they would not act now. 

Bilbo hastened his pace, disregarding his own assurances— he had never been a particularly amiable hobbit, even in regards to his own countenance. Vitriol lined the back of his throat and he found himself gagging as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to swallow it down; if there existed such a time when his body’s physical reaction to mental stress was inconvenient, it would be at this very moment. Saliva pooled in his mouth and, with a shake of his head and in the sights of the medical tents, he swallowed a second time— it stuck and Bilbo dimly became aware of the fact that sound seemed to reappear— he had not quite noticed it had left in the first place. 

His pace slowed and he forced himself to breathe less erratically; the middle of the dwarven encampment, the place where everyone who knew of his true whereabouts were residing, was the single-most dangerous location for Bilbo to traipse through. Filled with royalty, their guards, the wounded, and those that would be considered of high import— because Lord Dáin’s army apparently served a staggering multitude of purposes— this was the place that, were Bilbo to be found, he was likely to see the tip of a sword before it ran him through rather than restraints and thrown to Thorin’s so-called mercy. Those that were loyal were problematic but manageable— those that were political would kill you in cold blood, go to the King, and call it ‘an act of passion’ because of their ‘unyielding loyalty for both the King Under the Mountain and Lord Dáin of the Iron Hills.’ Were he to die, at least Thorin would not be swayed by the insidious machinations of a superfluous upstart if only because in the knowledge of Bilbo’s true actions, he would not believe such surely apocryphal accounts. The thought did not do him as well as he believed it would, and he found himself passing by Thorin’s medical tent with only the briefest of pauses. 

Dwalin stood guard, spine tauter than an overly tightened fiddle bow— were Bilbo a lesser hobbit, he would poke the dwarf just to see the metaphorical horse hair snap. As Bilbo glanced up to ascertain the other’s expression, they met eyes; Dwalin shifted, brow furrowing, and Bilbo snapped his gaze down as he continued to his destination. Without the weight of the ring on his finger, Bilbo would have sworn to every Vala he could name that the dwarf had seen him. A strangled shout of Khuzdul had Bilbo’s stomach twist— damn Thorin for having such an unmistakable tone— and he glanced back to make sure nothing was amiss; he _knew_ that nothing was wrong, even in another world where he had not picked up the language he would have known by the way the king had shouted, but Bilbo was a fool if nothing else and turning away from Thorin Oakenshield seemed tantamount to treading, unknowingly, upon his very grave. 

No matter; he had a job to accomplish and this was certainly no time to entertain nonsensical thoughts such as a rendezvous with Thorin when the dwarves— and he could feel they were almost within his range, a pulse thrumming in his veins as the very air seemed to charge— he was tailing inevitably parted ways with their plans and made their way back to the barracks for the night. But depending on how this day turned out—

A small group of dwarves, and Bilbo was not ignorant enough to believe they were the ones solely responsible, bickered softly with each other; the rough Westeron buoyed him— in an unprecedented display of luck they had been correct— and he thanked mountainous passes for the stone which let him sidle up onto a rock slightly above their reach. They were, because Bilbo must have been knocked unconscious and was experiencing the very best of dreams, in the very beginnings of making their plans. 

And then, because nothing good in Bilbo’s life could be immutable, another shout interrupted their proceedings. A trill of irritation clouded his eyesight as the dwarves ceased speaking all at once, before breaking out into furious Khuzdul. Most of it too fast for Bilbo to follow, he caught ‘ereyesterday,’ ‘tomorrow,’ and ‘better idea’— the latter two he could conceive reasoning with, but the first utterance eluded him; Bilbo had been in the presence of this group ereyesterday and nothing they had spoken of could warrant mention in such a manner. Unless— unless they had been in contact with another group; if there were two factions of this coup, working together instead of an inner network and periphery like Nori had believed, then by listening into this group, Bilbo was only receiving half of the information. 

The thought stilled him, even as the dwarves below broke apart for the day; if small miracles could still exist, Bilbo would thank the dwarf who had shouted— though he had less time for eavesdropping in on the plans than he had hoped for, he now experienced a wealth of information he did not, before, and would not did the situation pan out in any other manner. He considered following the dwarves, in fact he had already extricated himself from his perch and had planted his feet on solid ground, when his previous musing hit him full-force. 

Nori would be unavailable until the next night, and neither he nor Bilbo would be able to enact a plan about the as-of-yet unidentified secondary group on the morrow, regardless— in this manner patience would, once more, be greeted as a welcomed guest. This was the precise reason Nori was continuing his duties separately of Bilbo— the lot of them, even fourteen put together, had never managed to concoct a smoothly workable plan— they were overbearingly aware that _something_ would not move according to their desires in this game. The traitors, as well, would let well enough alone until they could adjourn once again to this meeting space; the shout of their king had startled them and Bilbo failed to comprehend how these cowardly, spineless rats dare ever pose threat to his king when they did nothing more than scurry away in the mere semblance of discovery. 

He would stalk them, quietly and single-mindedly, until after their nightly meal. After that— he felt a toothy grin twisting his cheeks up in knowing that their ultimate weakness would be cowardice— and solely because of the new information he possessed, he would slip away from the barracks once more. 

Just not, this time, for an empty tent leaning on the edge of the world.

* * *

A myriad of doubts plagued him, multiplying exponentially with every step he took, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his nerves from affecting any physical actions. This was— and he could readily admit this to himself—  _the_ most foolish thing he had done. Well, he reconsidered, the most foolish thing he had done in at least a fortnight. Wringing his hands together, in the physical inevitability that quite managed to surprise him anyway, he slowed his pace as he found himself within metres of his intended destination. 

The verisimilitude of his reasons for being here were both varied and flagrant falsehoods— his reasonings were nothing more than undue, and denying the veracity would no doubt cause more harm than good. He was an undeniably selfish hobbit, and this would only solidify himself a reprobate; Bilbo, as his pugnacious wont, was vastly unaffected. 

Squaring his shoulders,— the cliff he scrabbled purchase for was presently crumbling away in his hands, stone dust entering his mouth and layering his lungs with shards of the white hot glowing opalescence he had previously absconded with— and it was not Bilbo’s future actions that wrought this present nervousness but rather a coalescence of former deeds and words which plagued him with rather many more questions than answers, he swallowed against nothing and walked, ever forward, to where he needed to be. It was a small consolation, a conclave for scant hours, but Bilbo needed _something_ to keep himself verged on the edge of ruin. So indeed, it was selfish, but he needed to survive the month— none could find fault in this. And if some did, well, ignorance of that sort had always been anathema to him. 

A guard Bilbo did not recognize stood at the entrance to the tent. His plan now thoroughly foiled, he stood in wait at the gap between the corner of the tent he wished to enter and the one beside it— it was not the most comfortable of residences, but Bilbo hoped to only be standing here for no longer than an hour or so. It was in his own ineptitude, really, for not realizing that the changing of the guard would occur at a later time than the general start of dinner— it was wholly easier for something, someone, to slip by the guards were they switching during the rush of soldiers to food. So here he was, waiting for the soldier to leave and another to take his place. 

The shift after dinner, when merriment was neigh inevitable, stood the greatest chance that something terribly untoward would occur— the lull of food and night subduing usual dwarven sharpened edges. It would stand to reason, then, that the senior most soldier would stand guard at that time; this was, of course, the very opportunity Bilbo needed to act. 

Fire bloomed in his chest at the thought, the coil twisting, once more, into itself until it fell into a heavy knot. Truly, he needed to get this under control— nervous ebullience twining with half-masticated vitriol did absolutely nothing for already frayed reserves. Simply, he would breathe, hold it in for a count of ten, and exhale— if it worked for pains, it should work for utterly annoying emotional ineptitude. As his breathing calmed his veins, he tilted his head up to face the expanse of space above him. 

In the Shire the stars were different; Bilbo had watched them change, slowly, almost every night on their journey— he had not seen a constellation that resembled those he had grown up with since their company had crossed the Misty Mountains. And so he had learned new names for new stars and, all in all, only had encountered homesickness for his troubles. It was a disparate sensation now: in his foolish endeavors homesickness had become, for him, something larger than his smial in Hobbiton; it was thoroughly irritating. 

It was of no matter, though; what had passed, had passed, and it was time to leap into the future without a by-your-leave for rational thought. The dwarf standing guard cleared his throat and Bilbo zeroed in on his motions. Even here, hidden away in shadows and invisibility, he felt his safety stumbling headlong into tenterhooks. 

His gaze returned to the vastness of open air and he heaved a sigh, inaudible against the rush of early-winter wind. One day, he mused— and he bit his lip to stifle a truly inappropriately wry chuckle— one day he would understand his own motivations and desires without a veritable wagon-full of introspection and emotional repression; the times he did understand, even marginally, what was happening in his own head, was when confronted with Thorin. And did that not bespeak of the inherent, ruinous, hilarity of the situation? 

Maybe Thorin’s obstinance and his own madness would dwell well together, someday, piece by agonizing piece. 

Watching the sky until it darkened into a deep navy, the approaching footsteps had him turning to face the newcomer. The dwarf barked out Khuzdul orders to the, now liberated from his post, sentry and took up in his place; the other made a incongruously hasty retreat, and Bilbo had a flash of suspicion before remembering that the soldier had most likely not eaten since that afternoon. The new guard surveyed the area before him, and a thrill went up Bilbo’s spine as their gazes met for a brief moment. Another few minutes he waited, letting the silence turn comfortable once more, before he moved. 

Bilbo placed his hand on the middle of the guard’s bicep, and the dwarf tightened his grip on his axe as his eyes encountered nothing but emptiness before him. He grunted and sent a glare to the area around Bilbo’s forehead, before his grip became lax. 

“Just don’t yell, burglar,” he muttered. 

Bilbo snorted, just loud enough for Dwalin to hear, and flicked at his arm, placing a slip of parchment into the dwarf’s vambrace whilst doing so. Dwalin, for above all petty annoyances he was an honorable dwarf, simply opened up the tent flap to, ostensibly, shout a greeting to the lone inhabitant. 

“Four hours or through the night,” came Dwalin’s last words as Bilbo slipped through the opening. 

The king sitting in the bed, a tray with an inordinate amount of paperwork before him, seemed mildly perplexed by the other announcing his return, but as the flap closed seemed to think it trite and went back to work. Bilbo stared— the tent, with Thorin’s health, seemed brighter than five days ago, even under the cover of night. He did not encounter many things that took his very breath away like this dwarf. 

“Hello, Thorin.” 

He took the ring off waved his fingers at the king, who, for his part, looked absolutely poleaxed at his sudden appearance. 

“There was nothing to do so I thought I would visit.”


	3. Here in the Wilds; So We Journey, Ever On, and Through the Blinding Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Thorin and Bilbo are absolutely _terrible_. Gandalf makes a cameo. The plot is on the rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original title of chapter— My Beta Made Me Change the Title of this Chapter So I wouldn't Get Flamed. And on that note— thanks, as always, to vegalocity for beta-ing and listening to me talk about meta within this universe. 
> 
> This is the last chapter before the plot really kicks off, folks, so I hope you enjoy! Thank you all so much for the comments/kudos, and thank you for taking this ride with me.

“There was nothing to do.” It came out as a statement, and Bilbo smothered an entirely inappropriate laugh at Thorin’s consternation. 

“Indeed,” Bilbo agreed easily, forcing his facial muscles to remain placid as a wrinkle appeared between the dwarf’s eyebrows. 

“And the safety of my sister-sons is _nothing_?” 

Bilbo waved his hand before taking the chair next to the bed. 

“Thorin, they will have to kill you first— your worry is negligible. Heartening, but negligible.” 

“Your intent, then, is to make me wroth?” 

A chuckle escaped his mouth then— a grating staccato to break the erstwhile, marginally stunned, silence. 

“’Twas not, Master Oakenshield, but did my words incite anger, then I shan’t turn face; I find your countenance vastly more pleasurable when ruddy and pinched.” 

Thorin raised an eyebrow and as a languid smirk slowly appeared— dark and promising— Bilbo felt the rock in his gut become heavier. He should most likely speak before the other could wreak havoc with the rest of his sensibilities, but the dwarf began ere he could. 

“Do not trouble yourself, Bilbo; regardless, I am not angry, merely hurt— I much preferred it when you called me ‘my king.’” 

The last vestiges of Bilbo’s equanimity fled his body and he found himself pondering how much planning it would take for Fíli to ascend to the throne— Bilbo would make an excellent agent provocateur, Thorin did not have to necessarily _die_ to have the crown passed to his heir. 

“Bilbo?” 

He swatted at Thorin’s hand as it came to try and settle on his knee. “I was merely thinking upon the ways to dethrone you without your death.” 

“There are not many,” Thorin replied, a twitch of his lips belying his grave tone, “but it gladdens me to know whilst you wish for a coup you do not wish for me to perish.” 

“Death would be too easy for you, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo muttered, ignoring the dwarf’s pursed lips and mirthful eyes— this assignation was kilometers away from where he intended it to be, and most certainly needed to be prodded back onto the metaphorical track. 

“I believe you mean, ‘my king.’” 

“I actually believe I mean, ‘oh, no, the king is dead— long live king Fíli the Fearless.’” 

Thorin let out a particularly unattractive snort that did not, in any capacity, have Bilbo fighting off a wave of exasperated fondness. 

“‘Fíli the Fearless’? That moniker is the most—“ 

“Aye, Thorin, you are quite right; more apt would be ‘Fíli the Foolish.’” 

“Along with his younger brother, and heir to the crown: ‘Kíli the Clueless.’” 

“Ensnaring young dames from all corners of Arda, and ruling solely in deference to apocryphal tales.” 

“Peace, burglar,” Thorin managed, holding onto his side as his laughter turned overzealous, “lest you would have the last of my stitches come out.” 

“That would suit my purposes nicely, _my king_.” 

The king, in turn, managed to portray both egotistical pleasure and bitter disgruntlement in the same fluid motions. To be perfectly honest, Bilbo felt a thrill rush up his spine in eliciting such disparate responses in Thorin— he would make certain to remember this for future encounters. 

“Pray tell, my dear burglar, what I must do for you to call me that in a less facetious manner?” 

“I suppose you will know when next I call you it,” Bilbo shrugged, raising his hand to pat Thorin’s,— still placed upon the edge of the bed from after Bilbo had pushed it away— conciliatory and altogether more than a little condescending. 

Thorin gripped his hand before Bilbo could pull away, and, as Thorin tugged on his hand, he heaved a put-upon sigh before standing and moving his place to the edge of the bed. 

“What, dare I ask, puts you in this good a mood, Thorin?” 

“I am alive, my nephews as well, my company and my people will thrive in this kingdom, and you, Bilbo Baggins, are here beside me.” 

“Well,” Bilbo began, stuttering a moment as he waffled on what to respond with— his sudden frenetic energy coalescing into tapping his fingers against Thorin’s— “hmm, quite.” 

“Quite,” Thorin repeated, throwing an idiotic grin at Bilbo as his chest puffed up akin to a peacock; Bilbo found himself duly impressed at the feat— only the dwarf could manage to look so terribly smug whilst bedridden. 

“Why must you be this way?”

“Be what way—?“ and then a word in Khuzdul that Bilbo had absolutely no frame of reference for; he had the lingering suspicion that it was a backhanded insult— Thorin’s expression, of course, gave nothing away. 

“‘Be what way?’ he asks— as if you’re unaware.” 

“Indulge me,” Thorin prodded, goading Bilbo in the precise way he knew the hobbit could not ignore. 

“Infuriatingly charming—“ the dwarf’s grin widened, “—and then the absolute bane of my existence.” 

“I’ve no more than learned it from the best.” 

Bilbo sniffed. “Extolling my virtues will get you nowhere, Master Oakenshield.” 

“So you admit to your duplicitous nature?” 

His haughty tone rankled Bilbo in the basest of ways, and he flashed Thorin a grin— all teeth and no warmth. He would have to kill this dwarf before he managed to make him go veritably mad. However, he reasoned, what was this game if not made to be won? 

“I would name it more a bait and switch.” 

“Invisible thieves, never calling things for what they truly are,” Thorin scoffed, rolling his head to the side to glower at Bilbo’s now carefully innocent visage. With his free hand, Bilbo pushed the wave of hair off the top of his head, fixing it across the king’s shoulder— the king who looked entirely too pleased at the motions and Bilbo quit his movements post-haste. 

“Have you met many other invisible thieves?” he asked, instead of furthering his thoughts. 

“Aye, your lot is a copper a dozen.” 

“I daren’t believe it, but I think you’ve been swindled,” Bilbo replied, going cross-eyed as Thorin shook his head and— deliberately, Bilbo was sure— tossed his hair into his face once more. 

“Will you cease that?” 

“I apologize, Master Baggins, does my health annoy you?” 

“There is no sign of vitality that consists of shaking your head around to choke me with your hair, so yes.” 

Thorin hummed, as if considering Bilbo’s words. A moment passed, and then two, and then Bilbo found his spine straightening as he imagined every horrible sentence that could pass Thorin’s lips— it was all in the back-and-forth, and Bilbo found himself hasty and cutting corners to catch up. 

“Hmm, well, I should believe that being able to shake my head counts as a benefit of health, in itself; I would not have been able to do this scant a fortnight ago.” 

And that was—

“You are pulling your punches, Thorin.” 

“You seem a right state, I didn’t think it fair to thoroughly trounce you whilst your sparring was rusty.” 

“How considerate,” Bilbo dead-panned, nudging Thorin’s shoulder with his own to belie his words. 

“On that note, Bilbo, I must ask after you. How are you faring?” 

As a response, he leaned into Thorin’s side and let out a heavy sigh. How was he faring, indeed? Pausing before he spoke, Bilbo debated how to answer the question— the dwarf shifted and put some of his own weight onto Bilbo’s side, which, incongruously, made him feel more grounded than he had been since he last sat here. 

“I am faring well enough,” he finally replied, “at least as well as can be expected with isolation. 

“But while all that is well and good, how are you doing, Thorin? Aside from enjoying your newfound health, that is.” 

“The Elves, Men, and Dáin’s council are grating on my last nerve, paperwork— as you can well see— is unyielding, and my sister-sons are doing nothing more than complaining about taking upon any duties befitting royalty.” He paused. “So, entirely how I and Balin had been expecting it to go.” 

“Sounds thrilling.” 

Thorin snorted and squeezed Bilbo’s hand. 

“Verily. But bestow upon me information you may have gleaned in your subterfuge— I assure you it is more interesting than anything I could bemoan about currently.” 

“You know I can’t tell you much, Thorin,” Bilbo answered, tapping Thorin’s hand in admonishment, “it’s for your own— and the boys’— good.” 

“You just do not wish for me to ruminate upon it.” 

“Brood about it,” Bilbo corrected, flashing a bright grin at Thorin’s grunt, “but, essentially, yes.” 

“I am a king— I shall always think upon whither my death; you telling me of what you know will do nothing more than garner my continued vigilance.” 

Bilbo hummed and shifted minutely on the bed. In truth, Thorin _was_ the dwarf with the foremost reason to know what was happening; Dwalin had, in the beginning, been the one to impress upon Bilbo the virtue of not telling Thorin all that would be occurring— Nori had said nothing at the time but had scoffed at the decision in private, told Bilbo to say whatever he wanted to Thorin. But did he not agree to the decision made— especially made in the knowledge that Thorin, in his infinite wisdom, would inevitably do something to muck the entire thing up, should he know specifics. 

Where, then, did his duty lie? Bilbo was well aware that Dwalin’s concerns were parallel with his own— an emotional concern rather than a political one— but did the politics of the scraps he learned outweigh the emotional worry of Thorin looking askance at every dwarf who entered, thereby invalidating all they were attempting to do? 

“’tis a complicated situation,” he started, attempting to both assuage the other and forestall any complaints, “you must understand that this is delicate— what knowledge is garnered and who it is spoken to _is_ the difference between life and death.” 

“But is it not my life and death? And those of my kin? 

“Or does your plot not allow those intimately involved within it to have this knowledge, due to its _delicacy_?” 

“You are speaking as if any decision made during this time is not grueling, Thorin Oakenshield, and I will hasten to remind you that I would not be in this position had any other alternative been present. I do not believe any of us would be.” 

“Yes, burglar, you would be midpoint to your Shire.” 

The statement was snide, and while Bilbo knew the words were borne to frustration, he felt helpless to do anything but respond. 

“Maybe I would be, and maybe I would be the better off for it— I would not have to deal with you, after all— but here I am, and here I will stay. You know this, as do I; I am here, for _you_ , and if I decide not to tell you every bit of information I have to keep you alive, then so be it.” 

Thorin huffed out a sigh and thunked his curiously thick skull against the headboard; Bilbo wondered how the king wasn’t two bushels short of a full harvest— most likely the heavy bone. 

“Must you continue to vex me so?” 

“I must,” he agreed, gripping Thorin’s hand before the other could pull away in a fit of pique— he was under no illusions that if Thorin wanted to, he could get his hand away— “especially in a matter as serious as this.” 

“So you will impart upon me, nothing? Not even a morsel to sate my hunger for knowledge?” 

The look leveled at the hobbit betrayed his words, and Bilbo rolled his eyes at the needling. Would they forever be forced to speak in such a manner; riled up one moment and teasing the next? Did he not thrive on such mosaic modes of communication, he would think the both of them ill-equipped to speak to one another, let alone be— 

—well, let alone be _anything_ with one another. 

“Fine, I will impart something,” he relented, finally, and after a few more moments of indecision. 

He leaned to the left and down, not wanting his words to be overheard. Thorin, in turn, moved to mirror his motions, brow furrowed down as he took in the solemnity of Bilbo’s movements. 

“The dwarves I was following, when they were speaking, Nori was correct— it is in Westron.” 

Thorin blinked. 

“That is nary a trifle,” he snarled after a few more blinks of confusion. 

“I disagree— that was more of a morsel. Which is, might I add, what you asked for. Making concessions for your melodrama? I thought you better.” 

“And so I see when I misstep, you do not offer me the same courtesy as I did.” 

Bilbo grinned and bumped his shoulder to Thorin’s. 

“I have never been so kind.” 

“Your backhanded mockery is ill-suited to your face,” Thorin sniffed in reply, pulling his head up and throwing another glare at Bilbo. 

“That is, surprisingly enough, not the first time I have been told that,” Bilbo responded, shrugging at the dwarf’s questioning glance— it was as if Thorin could not perceive Bilbo actually having been told that before. 

“Was it said in jest?” 

“No,” Bilbo drew out slowly, bemused to the turn in conversation, “I rather think it was frustration in my manner whilst they were trying to receive my good graces.” 

“Hobbit—“ the same Khuzdul word Bilbo was now only eighty-percent sure was an insult, “—you know the words I spoke were only in jest. Well—“ he broke off and equivocated, “—the sentiment was in jest.” 

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupted before Thorin could finish drawing in his breath— and he really did look quite becoming, even with the splotchy flush that ran up from the collar of his tunic— afraid that the other would break something in his quest to use his words in _whatever_ he was attempting to do, “are you quite alright?” 

“I am fine, and I am also saying that I did not say that in frustration with your manner whilst trying to receive your good graces.” 

He felt his eyebrows raise at Thorin, the other managing both contrite and woefully smug. 

“What?” 

Thorin waved away his question with his free hand— it was imperious and Bilbo felt his mouth twitch— the king, despite it all, was indeed a king. Sometimes, through most of the journey and even when just speaking with him, Bilbo forgot; he was already in the middle of something much bigger than him, and every conversation, every _anything_ only entrenched him further. 

“Indeed, I find being able to keep up with you— exhilarating.” 

His words snapped Bilbo from his thoughts and he found himself gaping, thrown off-kilter by the heavy tone. A blush worked its way to the tips of his ears, he could feel his entire face growing hotter, and a huff forced itself past his clenched teeth. 

“Especially now, in the knowledge that none have before.” 

“Thorin.” 

The other grinned at his long-suffering tone. “Yes, Bilbo?” 

“Please desist.” 

“I believe I shan’t— you did not allow my momentary weakness, so I can do nothing more than respond in kind.” 

“And so you must blame me for your own inadequacies?” Bilbo responded, leaning his back against the headboard and gracing Thorin with his own imperious gesture. 

“As you do the same, I find it more than fitting,” Thorin answered as his gaze caught the other’s and he flashed a smirk. 

Bilbo snorted and let Thorin tug him into his side, the heat from the other warding off, finally, the last of the chill. It was an unavoidable side-effect of sneaking about with nary more than what was on his person, he supposed, but one he was, nevertheless, glad to see lessen. 

“There is a second group,” he stated after a few moments of almost tranquil silence. 

Thorin hummed, and Bilbo found himself surprised that he knew it was due to resignation rather than foreknowledge— he did not quite recall when he had become so attuned to the other’s way of communication, but here he sat, pushed into the side of a healing king, and found that he did not much care. 

“That would make sense.” Bilbo was quite sure Thorin’s statement was a mere whim of musing, but, nevertheless, he found himself enquiring as to his meaning. 

“The ones we know of are Durin’s folk, all. I understand discontent, even seditious murmurs as they feel their deference decrease, but to betray the throne in such a grave way? They would not, had others radicalized and distorted their view. Dwarves are, after all, Master Baggins, extremely loyal— the kingdom in the last years of my grandfather’s reign attest to that.”

“And so—?”

“And so— listen for word of Stiffbeards. An Ironfist spy would take the guise of one.” 

Bilbo nodded, knowing he was missing the point of something. 

“It is a long history, burglar, and one I do not find myself wishing to share in the time we have before you must depart.” 

“Nothing will happen until the morning, Thorin, and I am not one to pass up resting in a warm tent where I can be visible, considering my other options— even if it means dealing with you for the night.” 

“I am gladdened to know, if nothing else, your surroundings bring you a modicum of comfort.” 

And, in a fit of complete immaturity he must have learned from his nephews— or, more likely as Bilbo got to know the dwarf, they from him— Thorin stuck out his tongue as his ending argument. The motion was, to Bilbo’s absolute horror, enthrallingly endearing. 

“Is this what you must do when I attempt to spare myself embarrassment, you foolish thing?” he groaned out, hitting his head against the edge of the headboard as Thorin choked on what was sure to be laughter. 

“I would have you say it,” is all Thorin replied with. 

“I would have you say many things,” Bilbo retorted, “but you do not see me using treachery to do so.” 

“Treachery?” Thorin echoed, his chuffed expression belying his innocent tone. 

Bilbo waited a moment. 

“Wait, what would you have me say?” 

He grinned, sharp and almost pitying, and saw Thorin pale and redden in the span of three seconds from beside him. It would do no harm to tease, especially given the fact that the other certainly had no compunction in doing so. 

“For one? My name.” 

“I have said it many times,” the dwarf responded, his brow furrowing in question. 

“Not correctly,” Bilbo answered, smirking as Thorin leaned down to emulate his own movements. 

“How, then, would I say it correctly?” 

“Thorin,” he started, nudging his forehead minutely so it pressed gently against the other’s; their noses brushed and Bilbo felt Thorin’s shaky exhale on his skin as he continued, “I think you know perfectly well how I want you to say it.” 

“Bilbo,” Thorin breathed. 

“Close,” he replied, nose crinkling as he tried to suppress another smirk, “but you’re not quite there yet, _my king_.” 

He pulled back with a bright grin as Thorin swayed forward, the dwarf losing his balance for precarious seconds before righting himself. 

“Burglar!” he barked, eyes slightly wild as they bore into Bilbo’s own. 

“Yes, Thorin?” 

“What—“ words floundered on his tongue as his nostrils flared— the bridge of his nose creased and Bilbo had the inane urge to smooth it away with his thumb. And with that thought, denying his more rational mind clemency, he proceeded to do so. 

“Despite how becoming you look when you frown, I fear the state of your face should you continue to do so.” 

“Then stop giving me reason to,” Thorin grunted, catching Bilbo’s wrist in his grip as he moved it away. 

In a clear defiance of his wants, his breath stuttered momentarily as Thorin brought his wrist down, moving it until his palm rested against the curve of Thorin’s jaw; he cleared his throat as the dwarf’s eyes went bright and fond all at once. 

“You’re growing your beard out,” he managed to say. 

Thorin snorted. “That is neither here nor there. Your teasing, on the other hand…” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re speaking of.” Bilbo tried to sound haughty, tried to muster a fraction of even nonchalance, but it came out strangled as he felt, once more, Thorin absolutely turning the tables on what he was quite used to. 

“Of course,” Thorin agreed easily, tightening his grip on Bilbo’s hand as he tipped his jaw down and pressed his lips lightly against the pulse point in his wrist. 

His heart seemed to leap completely into his throat and by the eyebrow raise, Thorin felt the jump— he did nothing except to continue to stare at Bilbo. 

“Ah, well…” he stopped, realizing he had nothing to contribute. 

Thorin pulled back and Bilbo found himself, subconsciously and altogether humiliatingly, following the other’s retreat. Realization hit him the second Thorin’s grin became visible, and he bristled in irritation before straightening fully. This dwarf— and really, would he be lamenting this the rest of his years?— was going to be the very death of him. 

“I suppose I deserved that?” Bilbo asked wryly, rolling his eyes at this _thing_ he, himself, had started in the first place. 

“Recompense,” Thorin nodded, brushing his fingertips against Bilbo’s before letting his hand drop to the space between them. 

“And have you been fully compensated?” 

“Almost,” Thorin answered, voice dipping low as he leaned in— silent and with more fluidity than Bilbo thought he possessed— an arm on either side of Bilbo’s shoulders as he twisted his body for the half cage. 

“Thorin, your chest!” Bilbo rebuked as the grimace flashed on the dwarf’s face. 

“Is fine,” Thorin denied, growling slightly as the hobbit pushed against his arms in a bid to get him to move. 

“I _will_ press against your ribs if you do not move yourself, Thorin Oakenshield— you will re-injure yourself and I will not have it, not on my watch, so sit back _now_.” 

They glared at one another for long moments, the nascent thing between them making every word all the more precarious; this line would be crossed, every minute that passed was one closer to catching this indefinable thread that drew into them both, and no doubt it would be crossed soon—

— but it would not be in this way. 

Thorin sat back, his features softening the instant his spine straightened into place, and Bilbo tutted at the change. Standing swiftly from the bed, he made his way to the table and grimaced balefully at the tonic sitting there— he knew the taste, would not want it to befall anyone else, but it was wholly necessary. He grabbed it, gagging at the very thought, and threw a bright— completely fake— smile in Thorin’s direction. 

“You should take this,” he stated, sitting back on the bed as he proffered the bottle towards the other. 

Thorin grimaced as well, holding out his hand after a moment of Bilbo’s placating smile. 

“You are a sadist, Master Baggins,” he muttered, closing his eyes in anticipation as he swallowed the concoction in one fell swoop. 

“I assure you, I would not have done that had it not been necessary.” 

“Sadist,” Thorin repeated, dropping the bottle on the floor and pointedly ignoring Bilbo’s conciliatory hum. 

A piercing, three-toned whistle broke through the air, and Thorin’s side tensed against his own. Bilbo opened his mouth, and Thorin clamped a hand over it before anything could come out. 

“Hide,” Thorin hissed, pushing him away and bringing the lap-table to himself once more, Orcrist hidden at his side in the few seconds it took Bilbo to locate his ring. He flashed Thorin a quick smile, the one he got in return falling the slightest bit flat, and disappeared.

* * *

“Wizard!” was all the warning they received before a glowing staff entered the tent, which was followed by an irate Gandalf, who was, in turn, followed by an equally irate Dwalin. 

“Dwalin!” Thorin barked, managing a stunning impression of a king who had just been interrupted doing paperwork. 

“You wish for me to stop a wizard, Thorin?” Dwalin asked archly, and Bilbo had to smother an inappropriate laugh; stop a wizard, indeed. 

“Gandalf,” Thorin acknowledged, not responding to Dwalin as the wizard’s robes rustled up against a nonexistent wind, “what brings you back?” 

“What brings me back, Thorin Oakenshield? I sought to accompany my hobbit back to the west, and find him to be banished instead, is what brings me back! You have done an injustice, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór,—“ Bilbo saw Thorin bristle at the tone, “— after the battle I believed you better than what your kind has always been, but you have proven my theory correct once more.” 

There was a dull roar in his ears, and he duly noticed Dwalin’s composure cracking, before his attention focused in on Thorin twisting his body, making his way to stand. Despite the fire in his blood, he pushed Thorin back, his king emitting a surprised grunt and freezing in his shock, and moved to stand in front of him. 

“I believed you better than _this_ , Gandalf,” Bilbo stated, twisting his ring off and squaring his shoulders from where the wizard now stood, stunned, “but I see I was incorrect.” 

“Bilbo!” 

Dwalin unceremoniously shouted in a good impression of frustration at the exact moment Gandalf made his exclamation, and Bilbo sent a grateful look in the guard’s direction. 

“Yes, and be quiet about it, if you please,” Bilbo retorted, moving to the edge of Thorin’s bed and removing the table from where it had been half thrown off of the other. 

“What is going on?” 

Bilbo hummed and placed Orcrist to the side of the bed, propping it up for easy reach, before taking his place on the edge of the bed once more— Thorin took the fretting with an easy grace that said more about showing up Gandalf than it did about actually accepting Bilbo’s ministrations in full. 

“I will not tell you a thing until you apologize, Gandalf. And even then, it does not involve you, so I might not say a word. Regardless, I am not leaving, so if you wish, _you_ may.” 

“Apologize for what, my dear Bilbo?” 

“‘Apologize for what?’ For speaking in such a manner about my dwarves, that is what.” 

He turned to Thorin in a sudden motion, who was— much to his consternation— looking at Bilbo with barely concealed fondness. 

“Do you think that when they grow so tall they lose all common sense?” 

“Aye,” Thorin agreed gravely, “the taller they get, the less they hear the stone.” 

“You know, they say almost the exact thing in the Shire, except instead of stone it’s the ground.” 

“How intriguing,” Thorin replied, waggling his eyebrow at Bilbo as a pointed cough interrupted their musings. 

“I apologize, Gandalf, were you saying something?” 

The glow in his staff had dimmed during their conversation, and as Bilbo turned his way towards the other once more, it extinguished itself fully. Despite the wizard’s appreciable worry— clearly writ on his countenance even as he continued to openly gape at the scene before him— Bilbo’s placidity was holding on by a fraying thread, and he could not muster even the veneer of politeness to say anything more until the wizard did as he bade. Gandalf seemed put out for a moment, before heaving a sigh and shaking his head wryly. 

“You certainly have a way with words, Bilbo Baggins,” he started, ignoring Bilbo’s scoff whilst Bilbo ignored Thorin’s snort, “but you also have the undue habit of being correct—“ he turned to face the dwarf on the bed, “—and so I must apologize, Thorin, for my words upon entering.” 

Thorin, with a leniency none in the room expected, tilted his head in acknowledgement and, with a flick of his wrist, seemed to wave the apology off. 

“I have heard worse even from you, wizard, and so my expectations in this are low. Regardless, your apology is noted and accepted.” 

Gandalf, for his part, looked decidedly uncomfortable— under most other circumstances, Bilbo would find the atypicality of the reaction altogether droll, but he was markedly still wroth and bristling at the edges— and only the shake of Dwalin’s head kept Bilbo from demanding a better apology. It was not a slight against him, and thus it was not his place to say anything more— especially as Thorin, who was the wronged party, had already accepted the wizard’s irenic words. 

This did not prevent him, however, from casting a caustic glare at Gandalf, who took the look with entirely too much aplomb for the reaction Bilbo was intending. 

“Thank you; and, if I may, an inquiry: what in the blazes is going on?” 

It was sharp, almost admonishing, and Bilbo was quite sure the intent was to make him feel a compulsion to answer. Which he would, but only to the extent absolutely necessary. He caught Dwalin’s eye, who shrugged and made a vague motion with his head, and scowled; well, if the other would not speak… 

“There are plans in motion, and Nori, Dwalin, and I thought this the only intelligible action.” 

“Ah. And what, pray tell, my dear Bilbo, are these plans and this action?” 

“Dwarf business— I’m sure you understand,” Bilbo replied, smiling vapidly at the wizard’s exasperation in his non-answer. 

“I’m sure,” Gandalf echoed tartly, the bluster fading from his expression as Bilbo’s placidity stood, unwavering, in his piercing stare. 

“I also see,” he continued, gaze heavy on the pocket in which Bilbo had placed his ring, “you found more than your courage in the Misty Mountains— unless you’ve always been in possession of a magic ring?” 

The question ended flatly, assuring Bilbo that Gandalf knew very well he had not been in possession of the magical trinket before their journey began. 

“It has been, indeed, helpful,” Bilbo acquiesced, scarcely preventing himself from patting at the pocket that it currently resided in. 

“Indeed,” Gandalf replied, “and you are lucky to have it. Not much of this magic still exists in the world— you have, I believe, happened upon a most fortuitous trinket.” 

He hummed as he took in the two figures on the bed, bemusement plain on his face at the easy interactions betwixt the hobbit and dwarf. 

“How long then, until your action is done, Bilbo? I have some business I could attend to here in the East, but I will need to be heading westward within the next two months— after that, you would have to find another to accompany you.” 

Bilbo waved his hand as he heard Thorin’s breath hitch— almost imperceptibly, and as if the king did not already know how he would answer— and smiled at Gandalf. 

“After this,” he gestured to the entire space around him, trying to encompass the far-reaching aspect of what he was doing, “I will send word to the Thain and have my things packed until I, or another, can collect it to bring back here— I am of the mind to stay in Erebor until I am forced out.” 

“Which, if given my way— and I _am_ the king— will never be.” 

“There you have it,” Bilbo finished, resolutely ignoring both his own flushed cheeks at Thorin’s statement, and Thorin’s own indulgent grin in his direction when noticing it, “but I thank you for the thought, Gandalf.” 

“I would not have expected this outcome from the situation that which begat it; you are more like your mother than you think, Bilbo.” 

“I beg to disagree, this is a trait passed down from my father’s side— why leave home once you have found it, after all.” 

He cleared his throat immediately after the words passed his lips; why he was not able to think upon what he said before doing so was a mystery, and truly, the only thing that prevented him from further embarrassment was the grounding pressure Thorin’s hand settling atop his own gave to him. 

“Regardless, and I do not wish to hasten your departure, but we must be circumspect about everything— staying any longer would be quite suspicious, I should believe, and so would exiting in a manner unlike which you came with.” 

“Because you are banished,” Gandalf surmised, “and no one must think differently. What have you gotten yourself into?” 

“You know, there has not been a day in these past months I haven’t asked myself that same question; we will answer your literal question, maybe, once your business in the West has concluded, but abstractly? I will tell you once _I_ figure it out.” 

“And I look forward to the answer— both of them— but only, I think, after I catch up with a westbound hobbit with a head start. 

“Thorin, Bilbo,” he nodded to the both of them, before turning on his heel and brandishing his staff before him— in his tight grasp it started to glow once more— the hem of his robe fluttering up in a nonexistent wind as he strode out. 

Dwalin followed, and the pair sat in silence until he came back in with news of the wizard’s departure and the dwarves’ mostly continued lack of attention. The tension in the room lessened hesitantly, the trio glancing between one another, before it was interrupted by Bilbo’s stifled laugh. 

“I apologize,” he managed to gasp out, doubling over and leaning heavily into Thorin’s side as he continued shaking, “it’s just that all of this is entirely ridiculous, as I’m quite sure you can see as well.” 

“Aye,” Thorin agreed, tilting his head at Dwalin, who nodded and re-took his guard at the entrance of the tent. 

The tent flap closed, Thorin’s body having shielded Bilbo from view once more, and he let out a few last, bitter, laugh-gasps. Clearing his throat, a cough forcing its way out as he tried to breathe evenly, he threw a shaky smile at Thorin— the dwarf had placed his hand on the middle of Bilbo’s back, the heel of his palm rubbing a small back-and-forth pattern through his waistcoat. 

“I was quite certain I was about to die; it’s only now that my body is realizing that I am not.” 

“You did not behave in this manner after the dragon,” Thorin noted, his hand stilling for a moment before he reached up and carded his fingers though Bilbo’s hair, gently picking through the knots that had grown in the last few days. 

“I very much did— just later, and in solitude. I have never been steady, but I find myself grateful in that my nerves only take me after the fact.” 

“I— did not notice.” 

“And why should you have?” Bilbo waved away whatever Thorin was going to say, pleasantly surprised when the other actually let him continue. “Truly; no one did, and that was my intention. There were a great many things happening, all of which were more important than someone making sure the burglar was alright.” 

“Nonetheless,” Thorin paused, “if you feel this again—“ 

“A near-death experience? I will be in one for the foreseeable future—” he stopped at Thorin’s glare, “—but do go on.” 

“If this happens again, I would expect…” he trailed off and Bilbo took over from the unsaid demand. 

“As well I.” 

The dwarf’s eyebrows furrowed and he threw a glance, askance, at Bilbo. Despite the apparent confusion— and he had to wonder if Thorin truly did not know of his own actions or was just deferring— he persisted. 

“I have seen it often enough— I like to think I know you well enough— when your mind is half elsewhere. I would expect you to— as well.” 

“How can I say no to a demand such as that?” Thorin asked rhetorically, gaze softening as Bilbo leaned his head back further into his hand. 

“As king you are able to say no to whatever pleases you.” 

Thorin hummed a noncommittal tone and settled against the headboard, dragging Bilbo along with him with an ease that might have— not that he would admit as much even under duress— maybe, made him the slightest bit breathless. But the fact of the matter was that it could not be explicitly proven, and thus was ignorable. 

“I think I have already found it difficult to say no to you; which works in your, and most likely the kingdom’s, favor.” It was wryly self-deprecating, and Bilbo knew it was intended to be in jest, but the sharp points of bitterly believed truth rang through his tone. 

“You do not need me to tell you that you are a good king, Thorin,” Bilbo replied, butting the back of his head against Thorin’s hand. 

“I believed myself to be, but after— and it has been many decades since I last found myself negotiating kingdom politics and not simply keeping my people alive.” 

“And you believe they will not remember that? Your leadership helping ensure their survival? Now, I know I may be overstepping my bounds, but what is the harm in imagining Erebor not as an ancient kingdom that you must keep stagnant, but as one that becomes new under yours and your people’s influence?” 

The dwarf stared at Bilbo for a while, and he felt himself flush under the look— he was well aware that he was not used to kingdoms and royalty and the trappings that came along with it all, but he did not think his words quite so terrible as to garner this non-reaction. 

“After I am fully healed— the workers are clearing the forges and mines first to start the new generation of product— I would craft you a set of beads, if you find yourself amenable to it.” 

Bilbo was thrown by the non-sequitur, and he let out an ‘ummm’ before gaining use of his mental facilities once more. 

“Do not feel obligated to respond, I understand that this was not the best way to go about it— you will be far better for this kingdom than I ever dared dreamt, and I found myself hasty after your words.” 

“Thorin.” 

The other’s mouth closed with an audible click and Bilbo winced in sympathy before remembering himself to look up at Thorin’s, most definitely flustered, expression, his eyes a little wide and his jaw clenched— giving a heavy shadow to the lines of his face. 

“Thorin, while your words, I am sure, mean a very great deal to a dwarf— I am a hobbit, and thus do not understand your intended symbolism. I cannot reply in good conscience without knowing what you are speaking of.” 

“Ah. Yes, that does make sense.” 

“Quite,” Bilbo agreed, bracing himself for a moment before shifting slightly to tangle his hand in Thorin’s hair. “But to be fair, I might have an _inkling_ of what you mean, and if it is even slightly correct, I do not believe I would say no.” 

“Verily?” Thorin seemed astonished, as if Bilbo could find it in himself to be selfless in such a manner and not take everything he possibly could for as long as he was able. 

He nodded instead of saying any of his thoughts aloud. 

“I—“ Thorin stopped, “—but this is not the time.” 

Bilbo barely prevented himself from laughing as his eyes closed. This is what he begot from thinking almost the exact words less than an hour previous; it was his due, he ruminated, for all the build-up without the follow-through. 

“But who bloody well knows what is yet to come?” he finished, duly aware he had spoken aloud and Thorin most likely had no clarity into what had led to the exclamation. 

“What I mean to say is— I thought much the same earlier, but I have since come to the realization that the time we have is not guaranteed until this assassination is thwarted— and even then, time goes on without regard for who it passes by. If not now, there might not be a chance.” 

A quiet overtook them, eclipsed only briefly by the sigh Thorin exhaled as Bilbo combed through a hidden knot in the hair at the base of his skull. They sat, a stillness permeating the atmosphere around them— both thickening in his lungs and making him breathe all the easier— before Thorin turned Bilbo to face him better; if not in the knowledge that Thorin was in no shape to twist himself in the needed position, Bilbo would have complained at the manhandling. As it stood, he accepted it with a grace he had thought lost to reticence, and only tilted his head up to meet Thorin’s gaze. 

“I would have you by my side, if you would have me by yours.” 

And there was the death he had been anticipating these last months, and by the very dwarf he had envisioned it to be caused from; blood pulsed through his limbs at an almost astonishing speed and he felt his breath hitch, trapped in fervency that heavied Thorin’s brow and darkened Bilbo’s eyes. This was the precipice. 

“I—“

“Before you answer— Bilbo, I must impress upon you the notion that I am also my kingdom, and it, me. I do not mean to equivocate, and so I must have you be aware.” 

“I am— for all the times that you are _Thorin_ to me, I have never been unaware of both your duty and your devotion to your people. I have always been selfish, but I find I do not mind it overmuch when it is Erebor I am sharing you with.” 

“Bilbo, you—“

“I would— have you by my side, that is.” 

He paused, the bridge of his nose scrunching as he tried phrase his next question. 

“And that is what the beads are, then?” 

“Different beads mean different things, but yes— the ones I would gift to you would be in that intent.” 

“Then let us hope that by the time you complete them, your people will no longer desire to see me dead.” 

His joke seemed to fall flat, and with Thorin’s expression the only indicator, his blithe statement actually did him worse. There was an old adage that he learned from his grandfather, that jokes sometimes came out when you pushed away your worry; it was only now that Bilbo truly understood what he meant all those years ago, and he found himself grimacing at the unintended confession. 

“They will, once they can see what you have done for me— for them.” 

Bilbo could not find it within himself to believe him, but a soft smile appeared, nonetheless, at the words. 

“You _are_ a good king, Thorin, and I am gladdened that you are mine.” 

Thorin grinned and leaned forward, his nose hitting Bilbo’s with a little more force than intended by the rueful edge that overtook his grin momentarily, and leaned back until they were only brushing against one another. 

“That was close, try it again.” 

“ _My king_.” 

Bilbo tilted his face up, the heat from Thorin’s cheeks suffusing into his own, and pushed his lips against the dwarf’s, snorting as his motion bashed their teeth together for a painful moment before he softened the pressure. He closed his eyes as Thorin’s hand pulled them closer, his own fingers gripping loosely at the hair covering the back of Thorin’s neck. 

It was quiet. It was a welcome addition to what they already had become, and as they parted, longing cloyed in his throat and he was helpless but to lean in once more— Thorin seemed to think the same, and the beginning of their next kiss was just as clumsy as the first. 

“We do not excel in this,” Bilbo remarked fondly after they broke apart once more. 

“Yes,” Thorin agreed, “it was perfect.” 

“Is this what you’re going to be like?” Bilbo asked. 

“I am happy,” Thorin grumbled, “Let me have this— or would you rather the sniping?” 

“I do not know,” Bilbo replied, “especially if you are going to be so embarrassing.” 

“I am not the one falsely presenting myself as unaffected,” Thorin pointed out, placing a quick kiss to the edge of Bilbo’s lips that had him in a full-body blush within three seconds. 

“I am _not_ —“ Thorin’s brow raised, “—it was a nice kiss,” he relented. 

“Only nice?” 

“Well, you have to factor in the pain,” he answered. 

Thorin seemed to think on his words for a moment, Bilbo’s ill-humor fading the longer the silence went on. 

“You are right,” the dwarf agreed after awhile, and Bilbo bristled despite himself, “On a scale of one to ten, I would give it an eight and a half.” 

Bilbo gaped. 

“ _Eight and a half?_ That was a ten, and you well know it, Thorin Oakenshield.” 

“And so you admit it was more than nice.” 

“Of course it bloody well was, how could—“ he stopped. 

“If I kill you quickly enough, you won’t have time to scream.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Thorin responded dryly, humor coloring his face as he continued to invade Bilbo’s personal space with his inane smile and stupid bone structure. 

“Really though, and especially if I lie in wait until all of Erebor adores me and thus unbelieving that I could be the culprit.” 

“How utterly duplicitous.” 

“I’d live in the lap of luxury as a grieving widower, pulling strings behind the backs of Fíli’s entire council.” 

“And live the rest of your life without someone to argue with? Your future seems to be lacking.” 

Bilbo hummed in consideration, before huffing out a sigh and kissing the bridge of Thorin’s nose, grinning as the dwarf’s receding flush reappeared instantaneously. 

“Ah, well— murder is terribly overrated anyway.” 

Thorin laughed and, now holding onto the hollow where Bilbo’s head met his neck, pulled him forward again— Bilbo’s lips hit Thorin’s off-center, and he puffed out a laugh before adjusting; a nice kiss, indeed.

* * *

A gentle prodding awoke him, and he batted at the hands keeping him from resting further. 

“G’way,” he muttered, burying his face deeper into his pillow— which was, entirely inconveniently, shaking with what could only be laughter. 

“It is an hour from dawn, burglar, and Dwalin has just taken up watch again.” 

“Thorin?” he groused in response, “Stop speaking.” 

“You must depart,” Thorin corrected, tilting his face up to keep Bilbo’s ineffectual attack at bay. 

“I know, just— please— give me a moment.” 

“There is a pack of food Dwalin placed by the entrance.” 

“Did you even _sleep_?” 

“Not overly much,” Thorin replied, shrugging at Bilbo’s glower, “I wanted to stay alert in the case of your needed disappearance.” 

“And you were going to, what, place the ring on me as I slept?” 

“Had the need arisen, I would have, yes.” 

Bilbo opened his eyes, the dwarf he was partially resting on looking down at him with a placid stare,— Thorin’s hair was more nest than regality, and the shadows under his eyes did nothing for his still sallow complexion— and scrunched his face up. His misgivings about visiting Thorin reared up once more, and with it the realization that— no matter what sentimentality had been solidified the previous night— he would not visit the king again until the plot had been resolved; staying up all the night bade nothing but ill-fortune for Thorin’s health, and Bilbo would not be the reason for relapsed healing. 

“I think I would have awoken in the middle of your rummaging about my pockets,” he retorted, covering a yawn with his hand as he sat up. 

“I started sifting through work halfway through the night— you would not have woken up had someone barged in, screaming.” 

He sniffed after finishing his statement, and Bilbo found himself under the admonishing glower of a truly emboldened hypocrite. 

“Yes, because you staying up the night on your sickbed for my sake is exalted, but my not sleeping well for yours is assailed?” 

“Why must you so be spurious with your claims, burglar? Unless— is this your true demeanor in the mornings?” 

“No,” he replied, picking at the wrinkles in Thorin’s tunic for something to do as he woke fully, “you’ve just managed to annoy me the second you started speaking this morning.” 

“I apologize— my wish was only for you to depart before the camp awakens in worry for both your safety and that of my nephews and I; should you get caught, or— Mahal, forbid— be killed, the situation will be harder to manage. My not sleeping for a night both serves to enrich you so you can do what you must, and ensure that I can oversee your protection, if only for a few hours.” 

“Hmmm.” Bilbo hesitated before continuing. 

“You understand that I will do as I must; I do not believe I will perish— am holding onto fervent hope that I do not— but in some ways…

“Without the dragon, without the threat of battles and war hanging above us all— this is entirely new and I find myself in the belief that we must tread carefully. Thorin, my safety is not guaranteed; none of ours is.” 

“I am aware, and that is why I must beseech you to not take unnecessary risks with your life.” 

Had a needle dropped at the moment, it would have echoed through the tent. Bilbo closed his eyes against the sight of the dwarf’s stupidly haughty expression— disbelief rose in his throat and he could not stop himself from opening his mouth to speak. 

“Thorin?” 

The king grunted, his eyes narrowing at Bilbo’s sudden placidity. 

“You do realize that you are the very definition of a hypocrite?” 

“I assure you, I am not. Speak faithfully, as I know the answer: _who_ was the one to place themself between my body and an incoming orc’s— twice?” 

“ _You_ were the one to place yourself in the very position for needing rescuing in the first place, Thorin— your obvious wish in facing death was seen and summarily ignored.” 

“I—“ Thorin paused, “— have no response to that.” 

“Because there is none!” Bilbo huffed out, picking through the last accessible wrinkle and tilting his head up to face Thorin once more. 

“Try not to get yourself killed.” 

Bilbo nodded and quirked a small grin at the dwarf— who, as his wont, was still glowering minutely. Were it another time, he would continue their— conversation— but Thorin had been correct—

The dawn was approaching and soon the encampment would awaken. 

“That will be my endeavor,” Bilbo replied, patting Thorin’s hand before pulling away and taking to stand. 

“Before you depart—“ 

He turned, quirking his brow up at the other’s sudden reserve. Thorin rooted through his hair and Bilbo felt himself freeze: because, _yes_ , Bofur might have discussed some Dwarven customs with him that— while he was not forbidden to do— was heavily discouraged by millennia of tradition; and _yes_ , he had been expecting a scene akin to this, no matter what Thorin insisted about waiting until after it all—

But his breath was still punched out of him as Thorin opened his hand and proffered an hexagonal, engraved, silver bead. 

“I would have you accept this.” 

“I cannot wear it,” Bilbo replied, swallowing back the instinctive ‘yes’ that was buried int he back of his throat . “Had I the choice—“ 

“You think me foolish, Master Baggins?” The question was amused— the overarching enamor causing Bilbo to flush— and Thorin pressed the bead into his hand. 

“You do not have to wear it— I understand the questions that would undoubtedly arise should something happen to you— but I would still have you accept it, even if just in words.” 

“Yes, I most certainly will; though I do believe I already said as much,” Bilbo agreed easily, passing the bead back once more; Thorin braided back a small section of hair behind his ear, threading the bead through to keep it tied— it was invisible as he placed his hair back in order. 

At his words, a faint flush graced Thorin’s face and Bilbo huffed out a fond sigh. 

“Did you want to double-check?” 

“I wished to make sure we were of one mind,” Thorin disagreed— it wasn’t a disagreement at all, but Bilbo nodded as though it were. 

“Then, yes— and I will be gladdened to do so in action when it is viable.” 

And with that, he gathered what was needed of him— his actions were slower than was necessary, but the thought of weeks without respite such as this filtered through the cloudy haze that he found himself lingering in, had him hesitant to leave. Finally, and when he could not, conceivably, stall any longer, he turned back to Thorin once more— who had been, without his sensing so, watching his actions with a frown.

“I shall see you when I am through,” Bilbo said, leaning over the edge of the bed to tug at the hidden braid in the king’s hair; Thorin, for his part, batted his hand away only to kiss the back of it— in retaliation, if his brightening eyes at Bilbo’s disgruntled noises were any indication. 

“You shall not visit me again?” he asked once he had ceased his taunting. 

“I do not believe it to be wise,” Bilbo replied, shrugging at Thorin’s affronted stare, “the more I am visible— the more I am _here_ instead of loitering in the peripherals— the larger the chance is in my discovery.” 

He paused. 

“Why do you insist on asking questions you have the answers to? And— before you speak— know that no matter what you say, I will still believe it because you enjoy my denying you.” 

“It is good knowing that your stance on all of this is much the same as mine,” Thorin answered, “but I will not dismiss a sort of masochistic pleasure in your denial— if only for the look that overtakes your face when you dislike doing so.

“Truly, though— I expect to see you the moment you thwart these groups’ actions.” 

“Yes, I will interrupt you in the middle of a diplomatic meeting.” 

“If it is with Thranduil—“ Bilbo snorted and Thorin paused before continuing, “— then _please_ interrupt.” 

“I will make sure to do so,” Bilbo promised, leaning forward and only hesitating a moment before pressing his lips to Thorin’s. 

“I must leave.” 

“Stone keep you steady,” Thorin replied, catching Bilbo’s chin with his hand; the dwarf pulled him close, and their eyes crossed slightly when he pressed their foreheads together. 

“Yes, well, the same to you.” 

Thorin snorted and kissed Bilbo again; it lingered, the air stilling around them as their breaths evened out. The first time happening within the same few hours as the foreseeable last time was— well, he intended to enjoy the moment whilst he could, to say nothing more. 

“We will see each other sooner than you know,” he attempted to jest, pulling away and hopping back lest his body betray him and keep him in the tent. 

A glare was his only reply, but when he nodded to Thorin in ready, the king attempted a half smile before nodding back. Bilbo winked as he placed his ring on, and Thorin called out for Dwalin seconds after he turned invisible. 

He only allowed himself a brief glance back, cursing at his sentimentality all the while,— he was a fool and he could imagine his parents no less than absolutely delighted at that admission— before hurrying out; he made sure to brush Dwalin’s arm in his exit, an un-worded thanks for what he had done both the night before and in the hour or so previous.

* * *

The secrets of making durable jewelry clasps had never been quite this feckless when the company had spoken of their various crafts. Of course, Bilbo had also been terribly more fond of the thirteen dwarves he journeyed with— but these ones? Well, he wished them dead—or at least imprisoned— so he supposed the disparate reactions made more sense than not. Regardless of his complaints, however, they persisted in bandying on; these dwarves were waiting for their leader before commencing their meeting, and Bilbo had to simply endure their conniption inducing small-talk for as long as it lasted. 

He sighed, shifting in place to a more comfortable position— they, and consequently, he, had been waiting for near two hours. The dwarves’ agitation was to be their downfall, if the already sidelong glances and nervous twittering were an augury; two hours, while uncomfortable, was nothing to the days Bilbo had waited for a resolution to a rescue that already seemed like eons ago. 

“When will that Mahal-damned vagrant of an Ironfist show up?” 

Bilbo’s attention snapped back onto the dwarves below him. The outcropping of rock he rested upon was an ideal location to spy; truly, if only the group before him knew of invisible foes— this was a perfectly defensible position, otherwise. He shifted closer to the edge, his motions dislodging a piece of rock and he froze as the dwarves looked up. 

“You see, Frúd, I told you— mountain falling apart at its seams! It’ll be a good thing to get Lord Dáin on as the rightful king; never had a mountain, herself, disapprove of someone on the throne as much as Erebor and the contemporary line of Durin.” 

One of the dwarves— Frúd, he had no other choice than to assume— shrugged his agreement and Bilbo felt an irrational anger at the dismissal in the shrug; in a plan to assassinate his _King_ and heirs, the utterly flippant nature of their actions— they were unaffected in ending the lives they had sworn to serve— betrayed the veneer of dignity they imparted upon themselves to apply in public. They were worse than dragons— for at least a dragon’s actions were within its very nature— worse than even the very orcs they had slain naught but weeks before. 

“Hah!” another chortled, his laughter only quieting when two others shushed him, “that’s not even the worst of it, lads. I heard from my cousin that at least half of the wealth made by _our_ families is going to be distributed, ‘evenly amongst the returning caravans,’ with most the rest of it towards ‘rebuilding Erebor to functionality and dwarven ingenuity.’” 

“What does that even mean?” a particularly stocky brunet asked, scandalized. 

“That Mad King Thrór’s disease passed down through his blood— giving charity as though the weak deserve it.” 

“It was their choice to go to Ered Luin— what is it that the Men say? ‘You reap what you sow’; should’ve gone to the Hills.” 

Their laughter was quiet, but even had it been loud, Bilbo had little doubt he would have even heard it— blood rushed though his veins, and a dull roar became the background to every word said. These dwarves would pay; did he have the strength and skill, Bilbo had no doubt he would have slain them where they stood. But no, even _had_ he those virtues, an entirely separate group seemed to have a panoptic view of the situation— were the assumed authors of the advancing assassination attempt. 

“The Ironfists will betray us.” 

The group, as an entirety, turned to the dwarf standing next to Frúd. Most scoffed, one even going so far as to let out a disbelieving laugh. 

“They hate the Durins like we know their madness,” one commented, glancing at Nabíd— the second-in-command of the group and the highest ranking of the lords and courtiers from the former Ereborian court. 

“Yes, but they despise all of Durin’s strongholds— it does not matter if they are of the line or not. The king and his heirs are killed, yes? And it leads to us— who are the royal guards, and even Lord Dáin, to believe? A group of dwarves who had false accusations thrown at them, or the contrived evidence that lay before them?” 

“Brúd, you overstep your bounds,” was Nabíd’s reply, and he threw a sharp look at Frúd, “control your kin.” 

Brúd, in the impress of Nabíd’s words, flipped a rude gesture behind his back. Did he not chance immediate discovery, Bilbo most likely would have laughed; even in a group of idiots, there was at least one being with a modicum of intelligence. He could only hope that his words would both galvanize discontent within the group and— were he immensely lucky— sway the dwarf into giving up his fellow countrymen in attempt to stave punishment. 

“Of course,” Frúd responded, a sickening obeisance clear in his tone. They were there to take the fall, then, in the case Brúd proved to be correct and the Ironfist group did mislead them— most likely a low court position, lower since the desolation, and vying for the good graces of those who promised them their former bourgeois accoutrements. 

It devolved into gossip after that, Frúd berating his brother on the sidelines as a couple of dwarves tried very hard to eavesdrop surreptitiously. A rumor about a newly-minted Lord from the Iron Hills who married his wife for her money— and for her younger brother; a Guildmaster who was said to cheat both his customers and his employees and used the extra funds to feed into his gambling habit; a mining foreman whose accident reports numbered in the low hundreds— per quarter. He did not pretend to understand half of the context, but it was amusing, nevertheless, to realize that passive-aggressive pettiness was inherent in dwarves as well; he had been afraid that Thorin was merely an exception— he had been in entirely everything else, so why stray from the pattern? 

Bilbo heard the footfalls of approaching boots as the dwarven lords chuckled below him; despite the suspicion the rendezvous would arouse, he held onto a tendril of sanguine expectation that it would be a guard executing ambitious rounds. With fortuity forsaking him, Nabíd threw out an Iglishmêk sign at the stranger, who signed back in kind. 

The Ironfist, then. 

“How goes it?” Nabíd asked as the other dwarf appeared before them. 

“It goes.” 

The mood shifted at his laconic response and even Bilbo felt a swell of irritation at the non-answer. 

“Do you have the revised plans, Gíni?” 

“Not yet— our spies need until the morning to calculate logistics, and then we can finish planning. I will be back tomorrow at mid-morn.” 

“So you take leave of us to go about your business, only telling us of your plans upon completion?” It was Nabíd, and Bilbo rolled his eyes— was he only now grasping the idiocy of their actions? 

“You _loyalists_ did not wish to defile yourselves with a king’s blood so, aye, we will sort things through and then you will know.

“Also, we need more of the payment— can’t give you the rest until we get the next twenty-five percent, I’m afraid.” 

Nabíd looked Gíni up and down, the Ironfist raising a brow in return. 

“Well?” 

Payment exchanged hands and Gíni nodded, casting his stare across the group; Bilbo had no doubt that he knew each of their faces and could describe them, would the need arise. 

Nori believed that their subterfuge would exceed anything the group could hope to conceive, but as Bilbo followed Gíni away from where the courtiers were ribbing at one another in the crag— the dwarf blending into the crowd with ease, a congenial shadow that he was certain no one would be able to quite remember if asked about— he found he could not hold that same belief. 

That would have to wait, however, until his meeting with Nori— five or so hours would do him no harm but remain ill at ease. His plan, at this moment, was simple: he would first follow Gíni to see where he rested, and maybe glean a scintilla more of information; after that— and he was not quite sure about the logistics of this considering it hinged upon him speaking with Nori tonight— they would conceive of a plan to move their own interests forward; and finally he would, with great caution and deliberate force, root the cowards out from their hidey-holes and have them face justice. 

This was, he supposed— following the Ironfist deftly, already used to dodging the larger bodies without even a breeze alerting them to an oddity— another moment of liminality; what he learned in these next days would be the final stone in the mausoleum or the saving grace of king and heirs. 

Which was, to be fair, not the optimal moment to definitively absorb the totality of his place in this game; but then again, games had never been quite so kind to him.


	4. Virtue Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If even the best-laid plans go awry, what happens to the haphazardly-laid ones? 
> 
> (Lines are crossed, Bilbo gets sucker punched, and Nori is an asshole.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, thank you so much to vegalocity for being an awesome beta!
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank everyone who commented/kudos'd/and bookmarked; I love, love, love seeing that people like this fic, as writing it has proven to be so much fun.

“Quite right then, Bilbo, you’ve just managed to almost completely bollocks everything up,” Bilbo muttered to himself, an austere acidity in his actions as he yanked off his ring and slumped onto the ornate chest that he hoped did not contain a missive from Nori saying— once more— that he could not meet that night. Bilbo, for the first time, had information that could keep them from the precipitous ledge they were playing their game upon. 

“What’d you do, then, Master Baggins, Burglar Extraordinaire?” came a teasing voice from the shadows; Bilbo jumped and had Sting in his hand before the voice came into view. 

“Nori! I did not even see you.” He lowered Sting and regulated his breathing— his previous constant state of vigilance seemed to have escaped him once again, unimpressive and unsurprising— glaring at the dwarf who was now smirking in what he was sure an attempt in affability but came out as smugly condescending. 

“Was your aim to frighten me half to death? Because, you know, this is not the first time you’ve done this— and each time is just as unnecessary as the one preceding it.” 

Nori gave him a considering look before volleying the question for the recitation of his own. 

“It’s a long story, and they, themselves, played it all away as mere flight of fancy— I do not believe we have any cause to worry.” 

“Well, but now I’m interested, though,” Nori rebutted, taking seat in one of the chairs at the table while gesturing broadly for Bilbo to do the same. “I think we both have the time— unless we don’t?” 

“We do,” Bilbo assured wryly, resigned to the fact he was being currently compelled to explain his blunder to the thief, “the next nefarious notions I must contend with will not be until the morning.” 

“Then tell me the story first, and the news after. I could use a bit of a lark after what I’ve been doing.” 

“Fine, fine,” Bilbo acquiesced, taking the chair and raising a brow as Nori wiggled his own; the dwarf took a sack out from under the table and started distributing food between the two of them. 

“I was following an Ironfist and when he stopped I— was not expecting it. And I might have caused a— small ruckus. It was waved away, but Gíni, the Ironfist, looked quite askance at the commotion.” 

He finished, squinting at himself, before giving Nori a rueful smile. 

“I apologize, that was not a long story at all.” 

“It wasn’t,” Nori agreed, eating another chunk of bread as Bilbo started into his own food, “but now I understand your self-admonishment; I’d be worried too.” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Bilbo was grateful for the time to enjoy food that he had not been subsisting on for the past months. After while, however, the quiet came to an end— he supposed that, hackneyed as it was, all good things did. A foreboding thrill of discontent swirled in his veins as the phrase struck a bell in his gut; his body had been telling him that his current position was preternaturally tenuous, but his feelings could not bear great import— there was no other way if they wished to win. 

“I’ll tell you what Dwalin and I have figured out, and then you expand on your note, and this Ironfist, yeah?” Nori asked after he had finished eating; Bilbo nodded, gesturing with his own piece of bread for Nori to continue. 

“I am aware of two Ironfists in addition to the one that you know of— there’s probably,” he wiggled his hand back and forth, “no more than six, just because at that point it would be more apt for a frontal assault rather than by any surreptitious means— which, if we know nothing else conclusively, we do know they are using the ‘cloak-and-dagger’ approach.”

“Is that a professional term?” Bilbo asked through a mouthful of food; the journey had taken from him more than just his rationality, it seemed— it had taken away with his manners as well. There was a horror in knowing that he was not horrified at the notion but rather just long-suffering. 

“Aye,” Nori answered, “and I have another guild term for what I next need to tell you.” 

“Hmmm?” 

“We’re fucked.” 

“That’s lovely,” Bilbo replied, pushing his now-empty plate to the side, “Why is that so?” 

“Well,” Nori prevaricated, “it’s a problem that which its solution cannot be implemented until the caravans from Ered Luin can arrive.” 

“Okay,” Bilbo agreed easily, motioning towards Nori when the other stayed silent. “What is the problem?” 

“About half of the funds the Ironfists are being paid with come from the contingent of lords from Erebor who journeyed to Ered Luin after the desolation.” 

“And so they will not be present until the caravans arrive.” 

Nori nodded. “And so our plan becomes more difficult.

“But!” he continued blithely, waving away Bilbo’s questions, “I have already thought about the best course of action and what will, hopefully, come from it.” 

“Is it terrible?” Bilbo asked— to be fair, every plan they had made was horrid, but the slightly manic gleam in Nori’s eye had him envisioning something entirely foolhardy. 

“Most definitely; I’ve spoken it through with Dwalin— we believe it to be the only course of action that would lead us to every traitor in our midst.” 

“Great,” he replied, drawing the word out for an almost uncomfortable amount of time so Nori could see it for nothing other than deep sarcasm, “so what’s the plan, then?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Pardon me?” Bilbo raised his eyebrow at Nori’s succinct answer, unsure.

“We do nothing.” 

There was a tense silence as Bilbo attempted to puzzle out Nori’s meaning. He imagined, were he a dwarf— or, at least, a properly trained strategist— he would be able to glean what the other was aiming for. As it stood, he had to hesitate a guess. 

“We do nothing because we do not know all the players in this game…? Which you already implied, but I cannot think upon a further explanation that doesn’t involve letting Thorin and the boys die whilst we wait.” 

“No, we capture the Ironfists and the group from the Iron Hills before their play. Consequently, when the group from Ered Luin arrives they will find their plans null and void, their spies imprisoned, and thus will become frantic in their bid for employing another avenue of seizing power.” 

“So,” Bilbo attempted to surmise, already knowing that this was both their best option and would, undoubtedly, go stunningly awry— in a most likely spectacular fashion that caused more problems than it solved, “we simply pretend to have no knowledge whatsoever of this third group. What if, pray tell, one of them decides to try and save themselves by accusing one of the others?” 

“They won’t,” Nori disagreed, “I think only Nabíd would know about them, and the Ironfists would rather be executed than tell us the identities of the others.” 

“What if you are incorrect?” 

“Then another plan will have to be made.” He shrugged languidly, tapping his fingertips against the arm of the chair he was sat in. 

“But this is the best we can do and ‘what if’s’ are useless, so…” 

“Yes, I suppose you are quite right,” Bilbo finally relented, heaving out a sigh, “one thing to look forward to when this adventure ends.” 

Nori snorted in agreement, before gesturing to Bilbo with his free hand. 

“That’s all for me, burglar, what do you have?” 

“The only ones who will be ‘getting their hands dirty,’ pardoning my parlance, will be the Ironfists. There are some divisions within the group, which could work to either our benefit or detriment, depending on their nature. I will not know about the plan, itself, until the morrow— they are currently in revision, whatever they are intending to mean by that. 

“So, really, not as much as we wished for in a quarter of the way through our likely deadline.” 

“Perfect.” 

Bilbo made a noise of agreement in the wake of Nori’s sarcasm and stood up, shifting from one foot to the other to relieve some of the frenetic tension from his muscles. This utterly foolish and intransigent plan would kill them all, he was quite sure of it, had been sure since he heard it, and had no doubt would continue to be sure until they all actually did perish. 

“Well, soon enough we will be able to capture them,” he sighed out, rubbing at his temple as he wondered if he should ask Nori if he had a headache relief tonic of some sort. 

“We just need to conclusively identify three—?” he hung the question, continuing at Nori’s nod, “—three more Ironfists,— which I hope to do in my following of Gíni to his compatriots tomorrow— get evidence of the conspiracy, and make sure all of this happens before they can implement their actions.” 

The evidence, of course, would be the most difficult part to ascertain; the requisition thereof even more so. Dwalin, Nori, and he could name every member of the offenders, but if all they had was dubious claims and ‘well, I overheard’s— even on the behest of their king— nothing could be done under the current rule of law. Bilbo, to be frank, felt as though being a monarch would quite supersede any legal statute in place before the fall of Erebor; of course, this line of thought was the reason Dwalin, out of all of the dwarves, had muttered about ‘ethics lessons’ for an hour after he had stated just that, so he obviously did not have a thorough enough grasp on monarchical politicking. 

“Soon enough, then,” Nori agreed, an all-too pleased grin overtaking his face. “You know? I really _do_ enjoy this spy work.” 

“Really?” Bilbo asked, dumbfounded, “I absolutely abhor this.” 

“Different swords for different dwarves. Or,” Nori paused, grinning at Bilbo again, “letter opener, if you’re a hobbit.” 

“You should become a jester,” he sniffed in reply, failing to keep his own smile from appearing as he tried to keep up his contrived annoyance. 

“I might, after the spying business gets old,” Nori threatened, taking to stand as well, “but as the business is still new, if we have nothing else—?” 

“Not that I can think of,” Bilbo hummed out as he wracked his brain for something Nori did not know. “Everything else I have learned was on Dwalin’s note.” 

“Okay,” Nori agreed, pointing to the the sack he had left as he turned away from Bilbo, “water, food, necessities— I’ll see you soon.” 

“Wait for the rain,” Bilbo cautioned, before proceeding to wave away Nori’s bemused look back, “never mind, it does not matter— see you soon enough.” 

Nori grunted in acknowledgment and peered through the ventilation slit, waggling his fingers in Bilbo’s direction before donning the hood of his cloak and taking his leave. For his own part, Bilbo hid away in the shadows for a few minutes afterwards, knowing that if someone were to see Nori’s exit, they would peek into the tent in, if nothing else, pure curiosity. 

But the plot, as its wont, trekked ever on in its complication— the path had become overgrown and winding— and it was here, and it was in a moment that clutched at him in a constricting fist, and it was now, and it was going to crush them all. He sighed at his thoughts— honestly, being around all these dwarves made him decidedly melodramatic— and shook himself from them. 

Crouching next to the sack half under the table, he parsed through it to see what was inside. Cram, jerky, water, a bar of soap,— like he would have the time or the privacy— and other bits and ends. A good mess of supplies, but Bilbo found himself lackluster to the much needed provisions; a proper bed would be nice, or even a book, but he had received neither and thus he must subsist on what he was given— a true pity. 

A hush fell over the night-creatures and Bilbo tensed as a faint boom of laughter carried on the wind from the encampment slightly below. Relaxation took his body longer than his mind, and his fingers still held a faint tremble as he as the clasped the water skin to drink from. His muscles loosened and his nerves settled in the increments that the animals continued their sounds in— his blood cooled as the cavern-crickets chirped, his spine eased as an owl shrilled, and he closed his eyes against the chattering of the army of dwarves that would be going about for a few more hours yet; the sun was gone but the night was only just beginning. 

He distributed his new supplies to the few pockets on his person and the small bag attached to his belt and let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. In the morning, an hour or so before sunrise, Gíni was to meet with the other Ironfists; Bilbo, much to his own delight, knew where he was to be sleeping, and so could follow him to his companions. 

Sleep, though, would have to come first. And while not the most comfortable of lodgings, he still could not find it within himself to complain; at least he had a pallet, which was more than he could say for a multitude of other nights he had slept on this journey.

* * *

There was a rustling coming from directly outside of the tent. Bilbo, for all of the little idiosyncrasies he had picked up during his _adventure_ , was still not so attuned to his surroundings that a fleeting noise such as thus would immediately strike him as anything more than some form wildlife rousing themselves from their own slumber. It took, then, another series of rustles— the duration and pressure heard much too large for any creature that walked on four legs; notwithstanding wargs, but the tell-tale screaming they brought about was absent, so it stood to reason that wargs were not the culprit— for the onus of his miscalculation to hit him like an oxen-driven plow. 

Stumbling to his feet, Bilbo cursed himself furiously, reaching into the pocket he had placed his ring into the moment the flap of the tent opened. He should have hidden; had he ducked out of the way— had he been able to move in the shock of being found— they might not have noticed him. But were ‘had’s’ common sense, they’d all have a bit more of it, he was sure. Heart beating at a speed a hummingbird would no doubt approve of, he looked up at the dwarf stepping into the tent— maybe it was Nori, or one of the few other friends he had acquired, maybe even an elf or man, someone to whom he could give a modicum of a lie and have it believed.

The dwarf, as their eyes locked and Bilbo felt the inevitably of failure press down on his shoulders, looked poleaxed at seeing the hobbit as Bilbo was at seeing the young guardsman. Here he was— to be jailed or worse— by a mere boy; he shouldn’t find the prospect as funny as he did, but an almost gruesome morbidity had overtaken his usual cavalier humor somewhere between the Misty Mountains and the Mirkwood. He let out a sigh, weighing his scant options as thoroughly as he dared, subsequently throwing himself to the left in a vain attempt to flee before the dwarf could be upon him. 

It would do no good— for any party and for himself if he hoped to once more regain his freedom and continue his attentions in relieving them all from their current untenability— for anyone else to know that he possessed the power of invisibility. This would mean, regrettably, that could he not get away via his own wits in the next moments, and he would have to conceive an exit-strategy whilst in a cell— he prayed that it would be a cell. 

Bilbo knew he was caught the moment a second dwarf came in at his companion’s shout, his own eyes widening as a hotfooted hobbit rushed headlong into him; he cursed at himself once more— really, what kind of burglar _was_ he could he even not remember guards customarily did rounds in pairs. Then, to not even his own surprise, he spent his afforded exiguous seconds before the dwarf would undoubtedly capture him contemplating what agitated them enough to incur the thought to scrutinize an altogether innocuous tent; he could come up with nothing more than someone catching sight of either of their entrances the night before, or Nori’s postliminary exit. 

“And what kind of reprobate are you, trespassing upon the dominion of the King Under the Mountain? Speak swiftly, lest you lose your tongue and find yourself indefensible by all who bear witness.” It seemed rehearsed, as if he just learnt it, and Bilbo found himself hard-pressed not to laugh. 

“Well,” and if Bilbo were to be brought to Thorin, he would be so whilst antagonizing them enough— a mixture of glib intransigence and magniloquent ferocity that had the especial effect of riling up even the most temperate of beings— for it to be a swift interrogation before they dragged him to the King’s temporary dwellings; the sooner Bilbo was presented to Thorin the sooner he could get over both of their disappointment, “I might be persuaded to tell you who I am, but I demand nothing more than what I am owed.” 

Hands tightened on his forearms when first dwarf he encountered motioned in Iglishmêk at the end of his blithe reply, whither Bilbo was frogmarched. 

“You are not a child of Man— you’re the traitor, the _halfling_.” 

“Which is quite the derogatory term, I assure you,” Bilbo sneered, hiding a flinch as the dwarf behind him tightened his grip— no doubt the bruises would create a vivid portrait in the morn. “But, yes, I suppose that I am— or are your eyes so bad outside of stone that you cannot tell for yourself?” 

The punch from the dwarf in front of him was entirely unexpected, and it managed to stun Bilbo for a moment as he reared back— he hit a chest and the expectation of the next punch did nothing to alleviate the blinding pain in his jaw when it came. In his ensuing daze, Sting was snatched from its sheath without Bilbo even having had put up a fight; after this farce was finished with, he really needed to acquire some form of training— he had no illusions of taking the win, but at least he could put up a better fight than whatever sheer luck happened to grace him with. 

“You are owed nothing, you treasonous swine. You damned yourself in staying; the King was more than lenient on you— execution would have befitted your actions more— but we heard what would happen should you return.” 

“So bring me to your king, you odious cretins, but I shall impart upon him much the same: I am owed what I am owed, and I shan’t depart until my due is paid in full. Treason is unsuiting— he was not my king.” 

A third punch, this one to his gut and quite taking the very breath out of him, stayed whatever he might have spat next, and an involuntary groan left his mouth. Maybe his words were too contentious— most _definitely_ too contentious, did the Khuzdul Bilbo understand have any merit in context of their conversation. 

Bilbo was scarcely aware of his body listing to the side, only noticing his own involuntary motions when the dwarf’s grip was the last thing preventing him from tipping over fully. He blinked to uprightness, a ringing in his ears that denoted a mild concussion— which was, quite honestly, the very last thing he desired in a position where every word weighed heavy on not only his own tenuous predicament, but that of a plurality. 

“Your king or not, I hope he eviscerates you,” one of the dwarves stated— Bilbo could not be conclusively certain as to which one due to the faraway nature everything outside own his head seemed to be— as he was frogmarched out of the tent. 

“Yes, aren’t we all,” he groused, grappling ineffectually against the grasp imprisoning him. 

The light of dawn stabbed an ice pick through his temple and he winced in his ensuing hazed vision; the world around him turned double, and it was only by the Valar’s good graces that he did not trip over anything. Bilbo found himself squinting against the reflecting light,— the rain had left puddles that seared into his already-throbbing head— deciding to forgo perfect physical balance in better order to concentrate on his mental balance; he needed to tread carefully, to— in the dwarves’ own parlance— keep the mine thrush singing. 

If nothing else went his way, at least it was early yet; there was a notable quiet among the camp— with the sun still an hour or so away from breaking, the foggy grey dampness held little hospitality in contrast to their barracks that, while cramped, had marginally less precipitation than standing outside in the cold. The few dwarves who were cognizant bore holes into Bilbo’s back, and he was quite certain the only reason they were not spitting was due to the fact they could find themselves with faulty aim and hit one of the— assuredly smirking over their bounty and subsequent visions of accolades— guards. 

His already teetering equanimity dissipated violently as the banners, fluttering in the light breeze that only moved the upslope fog infinitesimally, denoting the royal quarters in the middle of the encampment came into his view. Already he was imagining the barely concealed disappointment that would undoubtedly come from both Dwalin and Thorin— and Balin, were he there; did the rest of the Company even _know_ what was going on? Bilbo had not thought to ask, confident that he would have no reason to encounter any of them until his mission had been completed. The less with full knowledge was better for all, but the coalescing unknowns in the atmosphere he was to be thrust into had a chilling effect not unlike that in the throes of fever— the chills, were he to be fair, might have been caused by the concussion rather than his mental incertitude. 

Inevitable disappointment and feverous chills would not stop the unfolding of events of his own making, however, and so— if he could keep himself from forgetting in the recesses of his already scattering thoughts— he must act entirely unaffected when he was presented. 

A jerk of his arms prevented him from continuing his trek, and Bilbo grimaced when the motion jolted his body; he looked up, a soft glare from the sun making his eyes adjust before he placed the figure in front of him. 

“We found _this_ in one of the unused tents— thought we’d bring it to the King.” 

“Was he like this when you discovered him?” If Bilbo did not know any better, he would be sure Dwalin sounded amused. Well, Dwalin _did_ sound amused, and really, Bilbo should have phrased it as: if he did not know any better, he would be sure Dwalin was serious in his amusement. 

A duo of scoffs were his answer, and the main guard leveled a stare at Bilbo for a moment— though it was not obvious, Bilbo could feel Dwalin’s admonishment permeating into the very fibre of his being. He gazed back calmly, the sluggish trickle of blood from his temple starting to coagulate against his eyebrow making him blink slightly more than a smooth conveyance of calm would otherwise entail, and ticked up his mouth into a modicum of a smirk, wincing at the pull the motion gave his splitting lip. 

“Your guards hit like babes.” He kept his tone laced in placidity, velvet— deep blue and dusted with shimmer— lining his throat as his words threaded strands of silvered discontent through everything they touched. 

He managed to wiggle away from his captors for a moment—their lack of experience showed as they faced a commanding guard and slackened their own vigilance— before Dwalin caught him in a slightly-less-than bruising grip; though Bilbo knew he was going to get caught, he still experienced a sliver of vexation that he was not able to provide even a bit of a chase. 

“Well—“ he huffed and debated with himself for a moment, “—I have some demands for your king that he will take into consideration.” 

“Demands?” Dwalin repeated— glib tone offsetting his no doubt stony expression, “And what sort of demands would a burglar have of a King?” 

“To take back what is rightfully mine, to restitution, to anything, really, than what I have been given.” 

The two dwarves the brought him in shifted on their feet in barely restrained fury on their king’s behalf; Dwalin dismissed them with a promise to tell Thorin who it was that encountered and brought in the halfling, to which they responded with a salute and a hasty retreat. Dwalin brought Bilbo up to his toes as he hunched himself down the slightest bit. 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing good, I assure you,” Bilbo muttered in reply, Dwalin’s tight hold on his arms the only thing keeping him up on his toes for the hushed conversation. 

“I have to bring you in.” 

“Mm-hmm.” He paused, swallowing against the nausea rising in his esophagus. “When I get thrown in the cell— if it’s not too much trouble— I would appreciate something for the concussion I seem to have received.” 

“I will endeavor to do my best. Burglar— he is in a council meeting with Dáin’s people.” 

Even to Bilbo’s rattled mind the warning was clear, and he straightened up despite every nerve-ending telling him not to. He nodded and Dwalin called out their arrival to the dwarves meeting in the tent, bracing himself in preparation for his never before conceived situation. His thoughts were going in circles— he needed to _focus_ — but he could not afford to be off his game in this imminent dealing. 

A dozen or so pairs of eyes trained their stares on him as he was half-dragged into their view. Dwalin pushed him unceremoniously onto his knees in front of Thorin, holding tightly onto the back of Bilbo’s collar— ostensibly to keep him from trying to bolt away again, but as Dwalin caught his weight unobtrusively as he struggled to keep from swaying, he knew it was a calculated action to keep him steady. He did not look directly at Thorin, choosing instead to seek out the faces of the council members; no matter that he was aware that some of the traitors were close confidants and lords, it was still a shock to turn to his left and encounter three of them. Their gazes seemed as heavy as his as he swept them over, and Nabíd looked— well, he looked wary for some unfathomable reason. 

“Your Majesty,” Dwalin greeted, bowing low to Thorin, who gave his acknowledgment in a considering nod. Bilbo wondered if was odd for Dwalin— having to address your best friend in such a formal manner whilst in public seemed like it would be an absolute irritant— but, as he often reminded himself, the both of them grew up in this very way, so it must have taken just a bit of re-familiarization. 

“How did you come about the halfling, Dwalin?” Thorin demanded, and Bilbo heard the glower before he turned to face the king fully. 

“Two guards found him stashed away in the official diplomatic tent at the edge of the camp, brought him straight to me as per your command, Your Majesty.” 

“So the little rat stayed his graced leave in order to weasel about my kingdom?” Thorin mused and Bilbo puffed up despite himself— really though, there was a difference between keeping the game and taking it too far and Thorin was veering dangerously towards the latter. 

“I beg of you to at least choose a rodent and stick with it,” Bilbo groused, unheeding of both Dwalin’s cut-off sigh and Thorin’s snarl at the end of his statement. 

“I am a king, you miserable rat, and you— in full knowledge of your crimes against this throne— will address me as such.”

He took a breath and looked down his nose at Bilbo who, in turn, was staring straight back at him, eyes narrowed with blood slowly filling his mouth; neither backed down from their impassé— the group of dwarves started muttering to one another, before Thorin’s scoff broke their whispers. 

“You did not take heed to my lenience, and have come to darken my doorstep with your treachery once more. You will divulge upon me your reason for coming back— what nefarious actions have been thwarted in your capture? If you speak fully, mayhaps your jailers will not forget you in the move to Erebor. ” 

“I am here to take what has been due to me,” Bilbo replied, tacking on a flippant ‘Your Majesty’ as Thorin’s spine went ramrod in the seat. He should not have been sitting; Óin— unless a miracle had occurred in the previous day since he and Thorin last spoke— had commanded two more weeks of bed rest, and that was only the day before Bilbo had started this foolhardy mission. 

“You are owed nothing,” Thorin sneered— and honestly, his pallor was worrying and where was Balin to keep the king from overexerting himself? Bilbo had seen Thorin only the day before, and _this_ was how he managed to look— only prompting Bilbo to laugh; it was a touch hysterical, but his blood-stained grin as he finished more than made up for the perceived weakness. 

“Except one-fourteenth of your precious treasure,” he corrected, straightening out his shoulders— Dwalin moved with him sightly to make the motion easier and Bilbo spared a moment to extol upon the virtues of the other— to try and go for vapidly imperious. 

“Are you?” he was asked, and if Thorin’s brow could raise any higher it might have to be given an award; it was duly impressive, and could Bilbo emulate it in the future, he would have the perfect tool of incredulity at his disposal— at this point, he mostly looked constipated whenever he tried. 

“My contract states that I am. Thranduil did not take my bargained away fourteenth, ergo, I am still the beneficiary of my shares.” 

“Are you stating, then, that the crimes imputed to you bear false witness? That my Company— that _I_ — all had our eyes deceive us in the same manner?” 

“My supposed crimes,” Bilbo quipped, “and what I may or may not have done has no bearing on what is entitled to me.” 

Thorin laughed and the sound went out of the room. A rush overtook his senses— the dark amusement of Thorin’s tone brought him to the battlements once more, the wind whipping his hair about as the mad king turned to fury— and his head throbbed, blinding him for a moment, as hot blood pumped his body into the readiness of flight. Bilbo found that he could not look upon Thorin anymore, and his gaze turned to the dwarf’s eyebrows; madness would not linger in the king’s eyes, but he knew his own residual fear would. They were fighting for the audience, it was done to most likely garner a reaction, but Bilbo did not want Thorin to have to see what only a tone could do to him as he faked his way through whatever would be said next. 

“You will get nothing,” the king replied, vitriol sticking to his vocal cords to coat every proclamation. 

“I will get exactly what I need,” Bilbo retorted, his gaze falling to Nabíd once more as the dwarf’s own stare at him started to thread strands of discontent in his mind. 

A foolish plan reared back in the corners of his mind and Bilbo opened his mouth to continue speaking, eyes locked onto Nabíd’s as he twitched up an eyebrow, before looking away to address Thorin head-on. 

“I have been around these past days, I have found myself laying atop a wealth of information— your rule, your kingdom, is not as assured as is made to be. My claim is the least of your worries, and— should I be forthright— your acquiescence to my demands might save you.” 

In his peripheral Bilbo saw Nabíd’s fist clench at his side; his breathing came a bit easier in the realization that his blind gamble had paid off. Now— with doubts about his motives niggling into the second-in-command’s head— it was time to up the ante. With a contemptuous grin, he made sure to conclude on blatant impertinence. 

“And so, _king_ , that is my offer.” 

“Counter, and final, offer: tell me who is aiding you lest your imprisonment find itself fraught with privation, you miserable vermin.” 

“You wish to know my cohorts?” Bilbo jeered, spitting out the bloody saliva that had collected in his mouth at the ground before Thorin, “Why, it was only yourself and your Royal Guard here.”

He smirked against the pain in his jaw— the dwarfs on the sidelines cursed in stage-whispers and Thorin’s countenance looked blankly down at him. 

“So you will not reveal your co-conspirators?” Bilbo supposed that it, while phrased as a question, was more a statement than anything else.

“I am only here for what is my due— and if I indeed employed others in this venture, do you truly believe I would say who they were?” 

Thorin stared at him for a moment, the lords behind him twittering about anxiously. Bilbo pushed his tongue against his teeth, wilting internally at the wiggle his bottom-left molar gave; he truly could not believe he would have to live the rest of his life with, most probably, one tooth short of a perfect set. 

“You will rot.” Balin’s words were spoken in Thorin’s absence thereof— imbued with an embittered finality that caused Bilbo to give him a sideways look. 

“Everything does.” He spat again, quelling his revolting stomach due to the action, a line of the viscous mixture of blood, saliva, and mucus hanging from his split lip for a moment before breaking. His grin edged on feral as he reared up to his feet,— held back from stalking over to Thorin only by Dwalin’s tight grip— straining forward as he laughed in the king’s face. 

“And the trumpets heralding your death will come before mine,” Bilbo hissed, “and I will laugh the same as I do now upon hearing them.” 

“Dwalin,” Thorin stated in lieu of a reply, “discharge me of this venomous wretch, I tire of hearing his whinging. Take him to a cell and—“ he looked Bilbo up and down, smile thin and eyes hard, “ _persuade_ the cur to reveal what he currently refuses to. I believe he will be begging for mercy in a week or so; crimes committed against the Crown are inexpiable,” he continued, shifting to the edge of his makeshift throne as he let the regality he was raised upon present itself once more, ”but we do have ways of making the rest of your pitiful life more excruciating than you dare comprehend.” 

“Torture?” The beginnings of a slur was unnoticeable to all present excepting Thorin, whose jaw clenched in response; Bilbo almost smiled at the worry before remembering his current predicament. He steeled himself before continuing— just a little longer and then he, though captured, would be alone. “How petty of you.” 

“Take this Mahal-damned derelict out of my sight! When you come to beg in mercy before me, kneeled and piteous like the gnat you are, you will find yourself bereft of my grace. And then, _halfling_ , I will be the one laughing.” 

The king made up to stand, and Balin made an abortive step towards Thorin before stopping himself. His worry was commendable, especially to Bilbo who scarcely prevented himself from doing the same, but Balin— more than most— knew that a sign of weakness from a newly-instated king in an already teetering political climate would do nothing but tilt the scales further in their disfavor. Thorin, bracing himself against the armrests of his throne, stood to his full height and snarled down at Bilbo, whose chin was tilted defiantly up to bore his stare into Thorin’s own glacial one. 

Dwalin jerked Bilbo away as Thorin made no further move than to glower at the hobbit, and as he was pushed to start walking, he found that— once more— only Dwalin’s tight hold kept him upright. Blinking away the black spots that were gathering in his vision, he only let his breath stutter out as the royal sycophants started chattering away at one another as Balin conversed in whispers with his king. 

They strode out of the tent and Bilbo hissed as the breaking sunrise stabbed through his brain and blackened his sight for much longer than appropriate. He came to, a shiver wracking his body and nausea crawling up his throat, what had to have been at least ten seconds later, as Dwalin had shifted his grip in a veritable carry as opposed to his supposed restraint. 

“Just a bit further.” Dwalin’s assurance was quiet, mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, but when the words and their meaning filtered through Bilbo’s brain, he felt the fog lift just the slightest bit. 

“Quite right,” Bilbo replied, the words sounding odd on his tongue as it took more effort than usual to speak. All he had to do was rest for a moment, sleep off the worst of it, and then he could make use of time alone to plan his escape and subsequent dealings. Just a little rest, and so soon he could taste it— it tasted like copper that maybe, once he thought about it, might have just been the blood. 

Though the comments made by passing dwarves were undoubtedly inflammatory in nature— the glares and curses spat upon him as any sort of indication— Bilbo was unable to comprehend exactly what was being vocalized and was, most probably, the better off for it. A few of the soldiers, however, gave him decidedly more considering looks; if all the dwarves knew of was his purported treason— and in the letter of the law, his actions _were_ treasonous— then the subtle regard their glances portrayed was disquieting. Useful, but utterly disquieting. 

“Welcome to your new abode, halfling. Enjoy your stay; no returns or refunds.” He made sure to pitch his voice up to placate the eavesdroppers, who started going about their previous business with a newly-increased fervor when they gleaned to what had happened. 

Bilbo had positively zero qualms in thinking that the rumor-mill would be teeming with hyperbolic tales about the king’s and his confrontation within the next hour; spurious claims would be hailed as genuine, and unless Bilbo managed to execute their final play in large public setting— he was unsure, at this point, if Thorin’s words would ameliorate his peoples’ thoughts upon him. 

“Lovely,” he grunted in acknowledgment, taking in the makeshift prison cell with a resigned aplomb that would do his grandfather proud— it was a cavity between two rocks, the side not composed of stone wall covered with a heavy canvas reinforced with a weave of metal running through its entirety. 

Bilbo never would have conceived of a situation whereupon a thin pallet and clothing scraps would elicit longing in his aching muscles, but as Dwalin pushed them both into the cell, he felt his soul leave the physical plane for a moment as he ruthlessly quelled any and all desire to openly weep in relief. 

Dwalin helped him onto the hay-stuffed bed, and Bilbo groaned as his back settled against the wall he was pushed against. His eyes closed of their own volition, and he groaned again— a completely disparate meaning but, almost hauntingly, with the same intonation— when the guard shook at his shoulder. 

“What?” 

“Try not to sleep, I don’t know how hard you were hit.” 

Bilbo nodded, the stone against his back keeping him from listing to the ground. “I am aware— one of my cousins did not awake after sustaining such a blow. I’m just resting my eyes for a moment.” 

“Nori or I will be in every four or so hours should your body betray your mind.” 

“There is a high probability,” Bilbo agreed easily, opening his eyes as Dwalin shook him again. 

“I would get Óin to check your wounds, but he is unawares of our plans.” 

“The same as Balin.” 

“To my knowledge, yes,” Dwalin admitted, shrugging when Bilbo hazarded turning his neck to give him a questioning look, “but he is aware of many things that no one thought him to be.

“What happened to you?” 

“In a stunning turn of events,” Bilbo started, having had passed from self-admonishment into wry resignation in regards to his words only minutes after he had uttered them, “I have found that I cannot talk my way out of every precarious position I find myself in.” 

“Was it harrowing?” Dwalin asked, moving Bilbo head around to check for further injury; in another life, the dwarf might have made a good healer— gruffer than even Óin, but a light touch nonetheless. 

“Oh, entirely.” He took the proffered water skin from Dwalin, taking a few slow sips before handing it back over. 

“Get back into shape— otherwise you’ll be entirely useless and Thorin’ll be dead.

“What got taken?” 

“Only Sting,” Bilbo promised, patting the pocket his ring waited in. “Well, and the rest of my pride.” 

“I’ll get your dagger. But pride you’ll have to find again, yourself.” 

“’twas mostly lost long ago, Master Dwalin. I’m sure, though, you have better things to do than entertain a foolishly imprisoned hobbit— do not disregard your duties in any sort of misplaced latitude towards my person; this is a predicament entirely of my own creation, I assure you,” Bilbo opined, waving a hand about and missing graceful by a league. 

Dwalin’s knees cracked as he stood, and Bilbo winced in sympathy at the slight furrowed brow the dwarf gave at the motion; their journey, it seemed, had aged them all. If when he next looked in the mirror to find silver in his hair, Bilbo might find himself having a stroke— he did not quite think he would look as comely as Thorin did with signs of age. Thorin, not that he would pontificate virtues upon the foolish king, would probably look right lovely in most—

A buzz pervaded the fog in his head and he blinked back to awareness to catch the last bit of Dwalin’s statement. 

“— but we’ll strategize your escape when you’re coherent.” 

“I’m coherent,” Bilbo argued weakly, fighting against the fact that the longer he sat the heavier he felt. 

“Sure you are. But we’ll leave it for tomorrow. What we have for now is fine enough, burglar.” Shuffling in indecision for a moment, looking Bilbo up and down, Dwalin shucked both his outer and inner cloak, throwing the inner to Bilbo before fastening the outer once more. 

“Put that on, you look worse than Fíli did last week.” 

With that out of the way, Dwalin nodded— resolute and almost officious— and left the makeshift cell. 

The canvas façade made breaking out seem easy, but Bilbo did not have to inspect the fortifications for himself to understand the complexity— not even beginning to mention the strength— of the metal hidden in between the layers. He had been told the weaknesses from Nori in planning for this very seemingly unlikely scenario, and he could do nothing for it until he possessed some tool— Bilbo could not quite recall the proper name for it— that only one of his cohorts could provide him with. 

But planning and worrying and deliberating were all for later— for now, well, for now rest seemed like the most fortuitous action given his current venture. 

He pulled Dwalin’s cloak around his shoulders, hunching into the warmed fabric as he pulled the hood over his head and curled with his back against the stone. Not a one of their aims, he realized with creeping foreboding, was going to accomplish exactly what they had intended; for the worse or for the better, Bilbo would not take a bet, but the unease was all the same— this is what became of them all when he deliberately chose to ignore every whispered sign telling him to find another way to go about it all. 

Soon enough though, and all too discouragingly, he could begin again. Soon enough, though, and it would be over with. Soon enough, though, and ever bloody forth.

* * *

“You dead? I’d guess not, but I also heard the opposite from Dwalin.” 

“Nnngh, I wish,” Bilbo groused, “but I wasn’t even asleep. And, though I can still scarcely believe it, I haven’t been able to the entire time. The wooziness, you see, doesn’t lend itself to satisfying respite.” 

“That’s good news.” He paused, considering his next words with a care that meant nothing good for Bilbo. “And you know what else? if you’re not dead yet, it’s not likely you will be soon.” 

Bilbo peeked up from his little cave of darkness, wincing at the immediate white spots the light from the high window brought about. Nori had moved from the entrance of his cell to where Bilbo was curled up, sitting cross-legged on the dirt before the pallet. His grin, while a mite teasing, was more sincerely sympathetic than any other Bilbo had been the recipient of. It felt unsettlingly mollifying and he had to believe that he looked about as good as he felt; the dwarf was undoubtedly experiencing a modicum of sympathy in regards to Bilbo’s entire face. 

“Excepting, of course,” Nori continued, patting Bilbo’s shoulder in lieu of trite words, “if you do something else conclusively idiotic.” 

“How long has it been?” 

“Half a day, but that’s not important. What is important is this: what did you say to cause, you know?” he gestured at Bilbo’s aforementioned face, “And what did you say when you were brought to Thorin? I was following Nabíd earlier and he looked as though he were questioning every choice he had ever made, and I _know_ he was in the council meeting that you were brought forth before.” 

“Well, then, I think I know what I will do when I get out,” Bilbo answered, grimacing after the brief smile Nori’s words brought about— while the split in his lip did not reopen, it was a close call and he had no intention of spitting literal blood again. 

“Oh?” 

“I’ve been thinking upon the group’s worries about the Ironfists betraying them— I believe, and especially in light of Nabíd’s reaction to my gentle probe, that I can rework this entire plot so it becomes decidedly more advantageous for us.” 

“And what, my little protégé, is this reworking you’re planning to concoct?” 

“I— well what I have so far is this—” 

As he explained his still-haphazard plan, the dwarf leaned in with his eyes widening the slightest bit every time— in Bilbo’s opinion— he found something particularly gleeful. The longer he spent expounding upon his future venture, the more glaring the holes in what he had planned became; before he was halfway through explaining, Bilbo made the educated guess that Nori approved of his foolhardy scheme. 

And Nori, to bring truth to Bilbo’s every prediction, found his plan absolutely _delightful_ — not shy in any manner to tell him exactly that— and that was when he knew it was most likely the worst plan he had ever conceived in the luckless sham that his life had become recently. Instead of voicing this concern, he simply nodded to Nori’s stated ‘annoyingly ingenious,’ and listened to whatever advice the other had in regards to it. The advice did, of course, sound like utter nonsense to Bilbo, but that was nothing new— elucidation into whatever Nori meant in that particular moment would come to him whenever it did, and not a moment sooner; the undeniable fact that his advice always came to light when Bilbo was already in the thick of the matter was an irritant, to be sure, but a thoroughly manageable one. 

It took them a long while to sort the matter between the two of them— the sun had started to cast long shadows into the corners of his cell by the time they had run through a plethora of options, and Bilbo started to wonder if there was anything Nori was missing whilst in helping him perfect his future machinations— and he felt more than saw the dwarf’s leeriness each time he forgot his place. 

“Have you gotten worse?” 

He waved Nori’s concern away. “Not the first concussion I’ve had, and I am sure it will not be the last— and credit where it is due, being practically carried about by Dwalin was more help than had I been afforded to my own graces.” 

“His arms are bizarrely huge.” Nori agreed to a statement Bilbo absolutely did not make, and he squinted in befuddlement at the other. 

“I— never thought to notice that about Dwalin,” he replied, caught between wondering if in his injury he missed part of the conversation, or Nori was just being oblique. 

“I’m sure you have about Thorin.” 

“Well, yes,” Bilbo admitted, decidedly deigning to answer the demand, “but I’m sure that’s entirely diff—“ Nori’s eyebrow raised and a faint flush dotted the arch of his nose; Bilbo was unaware that Nori was physically capable of blushing, but he supposed he learnt something new everyday, “— entirely the same. 

“When did this happen? I hope it hasn't been a long while and I've just missed it due to my own conundrums.” 

“Not so long ago. It's really just— Mahal be damned if I tell Dori about it, you know? He would go on and on and on and, honestly? It'll just make me wish I never started a relationship in the first place.” 

“I’m honored.” 

On the one hand, Nori and Dwalin seemed as unlikely as, well— he supposed it made just as much sense as his own unorthodox choice in partner; so, then, on the other hand, they must have made sense to one another. “Truly, though, congratulations.”

He paused, wracking his brain and coming up empty. 

“Is there something officious that I should say? Or, I suppose, something dwarvish?” 

Nori laughed, shaking his head, before patting Bilbo on the shoulder— in most circumstances the action would do nothing more than shake him, but as it stood, it caused a small landslide in the center of his brain, and he clutched at Nori’s retreating arm to keep from over-balancing. 

“On that note,” he asked after a few moments, Nori– to whom Bilbo had never been more grateful if only for the fact that he did not voice his concern once more— bracing him until he was able to sit up fully once more, “I have to ask a culturally personal question. I’m aware of the beads and the braids— is there anything else to dwarven, you know—?” 

“Not so much as is proscribed to us, I assure you,” Nori answered, failing to hide a smirk at Bilbo’s sigh of relief. 

“Oh. Well, that’s quite good, then, I was—“ 

“Except for the public fertility ceremony, of course. We’ve not had a proper kingdom in so long— it’ll be a nice tradition to bring back.” 

“The what?” 

Nori’s brow furrowed, as he gave Bilbo a long sideways look, “The— public fertility ceremony? Has Thorin not said anything to you?” 

Bilbo felt his mind disassociate from his body— he was sitting against a wall, pallor quickly draining of what little color it had as he gaped like a fish with his eyes wide— and he placed his fingers against his own neck to see if his heart had actually ceased to continue beating. 

“No!” It was pitched in a tone he hadn’t heard come from his body since his tween years, and were he not currently questioning every life choice that had led to this revelation, he would find himself embarrassed. 

“Really?” He cocked his head to the side— as if he could not comprehend how Bilbo could be so preternaturally ignorant of this obviously popular custom— and squinted a little bit, “I mean, I know it’s not my place to say, but— when we were younger, Thorin told me that was the part he most looked forward to. Personally, exhibitionism isn’t my trade, but growing up as a future king? I guess you get your stones off where you can.” 

A minute passed in silence, Bilbo having slumped further to the ground the longer Nori spoke, before he cleared his throat. He worked his mouth for a moment, trying and failing to start several sentences, as he squinted at the blinking dwarf; Nori, for his own part, portrayed himself as wholly earnest, if not amused at Bilbo’s clear mortification. 

“I mean—” Bilbo managed to stammer out, tugging at the sudden tightness of the collar of his tunic, “— I never— we’re both— How would that even—?” 

He made a sound not entirely unlike that of a dying cat, and decided to close his mouth before he could blunder his way around his obvious cultural ignorance; this was unprecedented, Bilbo could literally not believe it— but Nori was sitting in front of him, saying it, and he started to feel faint. 

There was a niggling, however, in the back of his mind, and Bilbo started to frown— something about what Nori had said— but before he could piece together exactly what was telling him that some aspect of this business was amiss, Nori had started to laugh. 

“Your face,” he gasped out, unsuccessfully stifling his giggles— which got worse as Bilbo started to turn, he was sure, an entirely unattractive shade of bright red. 

“Why? What could possibly ever make you—? I have a concussion, the Valar damn it all— what if I had passed out? I might have died, and all because you needed to get your own seed sowing accomplished.” 

“I’m sorry— really though, it was just too good of an opportunity to pass up, and I’m only a dwarf.” 

Haranguing upon a point of contention was not Bilbo’s usual modus operandi— though to be fair, most everyone else, if not all, would vehemently disagree with his personal analysis— but he felt marginally justified in his current anger; if this were not a situation wherein temperance equated to a deficiency, then what was it? And so felt he no qualms about puffing his chest out in order to give the dwarf a thorough chewing-out; Nori raised his hand and placed it on Bilbo’s forehead just as he was about to fall forward from getting too indignant too quickly— and, really, who needed enemies with friends like these? Of course, it was either Nori’s hand or the stone floor, and so he could give the other a scintilla of forgiveness. But no more. 

“You would do the same in my situation,” Nori stated after a moment, his chuckling reduced to a manageable level.

“Your spurious claims can make way for malicious rumors,” he replied sullenly, letting the anger slough off of him before sitting up fully once more. 

“Aye, that’s half my job,” Nori responded readily, wiggling his eyebrows as Bilbo pursed his lips as tightly as he could without furthering any of his injuries, “the other half, at least for next few days, is to babysit you— make sure you don’t escape, you know?”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Bilbo agreed, a sarcastic drollness lacing his words— the dwarf was decidedly too enamored with Bilbo’s predicament, and he was finding himself wary of Nori’s intentions; he did not _truly_ believe that the other would delay his departure, but it was most likely to the both of their benefits could he hasten the conversation in respect to his… liberation. 

“But if we’re speaking about that—” he continued, finding himself abruptly cut-off as Nori determined that his best course of action was to interrupt him. 

“Yes, about the particulars of your extrication. I’ve been thinking about that, and I have a plan. First,” Nori paused, casting a sidelong look at Bilbo, who, for his part, found himself squinting against the mounting pain— he had been alert for too long, it seemed, if his body continued to betray him thusly, “—well, first, you’ll stay for another two days.” 

He held up a hand as Bilbo started lodging a protest. “You need to be at your best for our own play to win this game—we’re screwed enough as it is, let alone with you missing something crucial because you’re concussed. 

“So,” he rocked his shoulders back and forth in a thoroughly exasperating capriciousness, “get over yourself and take the much needed rest.” 

“You’re right,” Bilbo capitulated, knowing the sense of chastisement he felt coming from Nori only effected him due to his inhibited mental faculties, “But what about after that?” 

“Oh, Bilbo,” Nori practically cooed, and he recoiled in a ferocious iciness that overtook his being— nothing estimable could come from that tone, he was absolutely assured of _that_ , if of nothing else presently thus, “this is where it gets fun.” 

Nori had ended on a veritable hiss of self-indulgent gratification that had Bilbo grasping at his flowers, an argument— or five, or seventeen— on the tip of his tongue before the newly-coined spy could even explicate. In the recesses of his mind, however, he halted his word before they could take to fruition; Nori, no matter what Bilbo thought personally about where he garnered pleasure from, was predisposed— definitely moreso than Bilbo could contend with— to seemingly lunatic methods that that tended, more oft than not, to bring about achievement. 

“Go on, then,” Bilbo relented, hoping against all hopes that what Nori was about to suggest was nothing more than rational.

“So, the metal’s going to be the toughest part—” he started, the actions of his hands emphasizing his words, “—and so you’ll need a tool to get through.” 

“Yes, we’ve already discussed this.” It was agitated, and Bilbo found himself drumming his fingers against his thigh as Nori glared balefully at him for the interruption. 

“Just making sure you remember,” Nori placated smoothly, “I mean, it could be that the multiple hits affected your memory.” He shrugged, mimicking Bilbo’s piqued visage. 

“I assure you, I do,” he replied, continuing to squint at the dwarf who seemed unrepentant in his glib reticence, “but please, Nori, before I perish— this is getting utterly ridiculous.” 

“Peace, burglar; I will, I will. 

“Starting tonight, Dwalin, on his every other shift, will bring an apprentice for the Royal Guards with him for training. In a couple days, Dwalin is going to let him do a shift on his own. And while you shouldn’t do it on the first one, because even a novice knows to be vigilant on their first day—” 

“Unfortunately,” Bilbo interrupted. 

“Yeah, unfortunately. Anyways, on the second shift is when you take him down. And at that point you should have already cut through the metal and to the outer canvas, so—”

“Knock him out, cut through the canvas, look both ways before escaping?” The question was drier than intended, and Bilbo _knew_ he had the means of invisibility, but the sheer number of aspects that could— and most likely would— go sideways was staggering. 

“That’s not fun,” he finally answered to his own question; Nori snorted and gave his hand a wiggle, which, Bilbo supposed, meant that he disagreed. 

The spy shrugged. “It’s daring, ergo, it’s fun.” 

Bilbo wholeheartedly believed that his own definition of ‘fun’ and that of Nori’s were decisively disparate from one another. His own— like most rational beings— was mostly benign; Nori’s would get him killed, and most likely sooner than later. It would also get Bilbo, himself, killed, which brought him to—

“And how, exactly, would I knock him out? There aren’t a multitude of items just _lying_ around that I can use to bludgeon enemies.” 

“Okay, so Dwalin is going to show up about halfway through his shift, purportedly to make sure everything is going smoothly. He’ll— uh, Dwalin, I mean— go over to ‘check on you,” he threw a wry look to the middle distance and Bilbo coughed down a grin the words wanted to elicit, “and when he’s, well, lightly roughing you up, he’ll give you what you need.” 

“I never thought being friends with a guard would be actually useful,” Bilbo mused lightly; this was, of course, in preference to calculating every better option at his disposal— with no chance of succeeding, were he honest, because a sensible strategy was also a moot one, “but I must admit that receiving a fake beating and a means to escape is marginally better than what could have been.” 

“A real beating and prison for the rest of your life?” 

“To be fair,” Bilbo retorted, “if I hadn’t lumped myself in with you lot all those months ago, I would not have journeyed to the East regardless, so…” He shrugged, leaning his head against the stone wall as he tried to get comfortable; it did not work, which, he conjectured, was the cell’s true function— knowing the tactical reasoning did nothing to make him less apt to complain to Thorin about it when his endeavor was complete. 

“True,” Nori nodded, “but then most of us would have been dead— so I’ll call it luck and let the matter lie.” 

“Hmmm,” he agreed mildly,— the throb in his body now spiking into ice every third or so heartbeat— wondering exactly how rude Nori would consider him did he kick the dwarf out so he could rest; in the Shire— if only due to societal pressure— he would not have seriously considered it an option, but Nori, most hopefully, would just see the action for what it was. 

“It’s getting late, I should go.” The verbal non-sequitur threw Bilbo off and for a moment he pondered if the other had gained the ability to read minds; if he had, it was terribly unfair that Bilbo was the one to do the metaphorical heavy-lifting in this operation. 

“How did you—?” 

Nori waved him off. “You’re really expressive right now, is all.” 

He stood up, dusting off the seat of his pants as he clicked his tongue; Bilbo watched him enviously— to be able to just stand up and walk away, it was a luxury he would not have for awhile yet; Bilbo knew that Nori wasn’t as self-governing as it seemed— the garden on the other side of the fence was always more plentiful— but he could not help the fission of irritation that went through him as the other gave him a jaunty wave and strode out. 

The lock slid into place behind Nori, Bilbo could hear the dull thud piecing the sides of the metal together, and he heaved out a sigh. 

The action precipitated nothing other than a spasm in his head and he groaned weakly; it took a moment, but the pain receded, and Bilbo was quite ready to never put himself in another position that could produce a concussion as a viable outcome. Not that his vow would do much good in reality, as _every_ deed he would perform was fraught with opportunities for new and absurd ways to harm himself. 

“Just breathe.” Hearing his thoughts aloud made it easier for him to do exactly so; when spoken, words always seemed more grounded and that was quite unequivocally what Bilbo needed to keep himself focused. 

Not that he was currently _unfocused_ — he was actually quite conscious of everything around him; it was the world, itself, that was the authentic perpetrator of his maybe, trivially unfocused demeanor… 

Because that excuse would undoubtedly make sense to him after he healed fully. 

A screeching, most likely an ill-tuned fiddle, suspended his current bout of brooding— and really, nothing about his current predicament necessitated acting like Thorin, of all people— and even in his mounting pain at the continued shrilling— did the dwarf not know how to tune an instrument? Because his blatant incompetence was showing— Bilbo felt a smidgen of appreciativeness at the interruption. The racket would almost certainly keep him awake— but better awake and away from pointless ruminating than asleep and cycling through it all in unconscious unease— and, really, his only option was to hunch into his borrowed cloak and pray that someone would tell that poor soul he was hopelessly out of tune.

* * *

Eventually, though it took their joviality an hour or so longer than Bilbo had anticipated in reference with previous nights, the camp became quieter as dwarves started their nightly ablutions. He opened his eyes as the cavern-crickets made their presence known— a soothing trill that, compounded with the rays of moonlight the high window afforded him, reminded him of the home that had been lost to him as he grew up; being a faunt colored the memories of home in a way that, when thought about as an adult, left him wanting. 

But if he could be reminded of it— even if in this cell and only briefly— in this place on the other side of the world? Well, it was something he did not have before. 

Footsteps forestalled any further introspection, and Bilbo briefly wondered if he would nevermore be able to submerge himself in self-pity before being rudely interrupted. The lock clinked as the key turned, and he glared sullenly to whomever dared disturb his melancholy. 

Dwalin entered his cell without ceremony, but it was Óin trailing behind him that made Bilbo raise an eyebrow. This was— unexpected, especially in consideration to the fact that only hours before Dwalin had told him that Óin neither knew of Bilbo’s plans, nor was Dwalin going to divulge them to the healer. 

“What’s happened?” he asked, ignoring Óin’s ‘hhmph’ of irritation at his less-than-screamed question; when Bilbo made no motion to ask again, he shook his head and moved over to where he was leaning against the wall. 

“Nothing. Nori said you were worse than before— Óin knowing is less risky than what could happen if you’re not at least given something for the pain.” 

“While I appreciate it,” Bilbo replied, blithely letting Óin do as he will, “and trust me, I _do_ , I don’t know if I’d make the same risk-assessment.” 

“Yes, well, that’s why you’re not in charge of your own health.” It was almost cheerful, and Bilbo furrowed his brow at the dwarf’s smirk. “You’re like Thorin— stubborn to a fault.” 

Bilbo wanted to find himself insulted, but— and he could be upfront with himself— that trait might have been one of the first things he found frustratingly attractive about the other; Thorin, if he took how they baited one another into deliberation, most likely thought the same towards his own person. 

“I suppose,” he allowed, following Óin’s fingertip with his eyes at the other’s gruff command. 

“I do have a query, though,” he continued, words slightly obstructed by the cloak as he put his head down for Óin to check his scalp for wounds, “were you not worried about others seeing a healer come into my cell?” 

Dwalin scoffed and shook his head. “Though we are supposedly using ‘enhanced interrogation’ techniques, it’s still normal for medical attention afterwards.” 

“Keeps you alive longer,” Bilbo surmised, reigning in a shudder. Those who encountered such techniques, however, must have had information of some worth, else it would be more work than gained benefit. He wondered if such tactics actually yielded positive results. 

“Are you angry at me or something?” he asked irritably, enunciating his words as he faced the still-examining healer— because Dwalin could understand him quite perfectly, no matter what he chose to conveniently ignore or defer— after neither of the dwarves deigned to speak. 

“You’re stupid,” Óin announced, thankfully— to both Bilbo’s countenance and the general population outside— keeping his tone down to a manageable level; it was unfair of Bilbo, he knew, to disparage the other so, but when stealth was the soul of success and he did not know Iglshmêk— well, he could not fault himself for the concern. 

“Yes, I’m quite aware of that,” he answered tartly, wincing as Óin prodded at his jaw in a seemingly nonchalant fashion— dwarves might not care about bedside manner, but hobbits most certainly did, and honestly? Well, _honestly_ ,he acted exactly like Magnolia Brandybuck— the cantankerous old healer that ruled the medicines of Hobbiton with an iron fist— so Bilbo really had no right for complaint. 

“But you’re a good lad,” he continued, Bilbo’s agreement all he needed to do so, “and you’re doing what’s right. Even if as a wee thing you’re easy to bruise.” 

A bristle lodged in his spine, and Bilbo felt any amiability he possessed flee him to give way to aggravation. If Bilbo did not need the healer to ease his current ailment, he would be sorely tempted to punch him in the face— see how it felt even as a dwarf. 

“I’m neither young nor ‘wee’,” he huffed out instead, deciding not to complain further as Dwalin thrust his water skin at him once more; it quenched the thirst he did not know had been building steadily in his time… brooding— and it was brooding, he could fully admit it. 

“‘Course not,” Óin readily agreed, and Bilbo had to wonder if he had quite heard his rebuttal— it didn’t really matter, he decided, in the scope of things considered. 

“Now take this,” he continued, shoving a vial of _something_ into Bilbo’s hand, and he gagged at the thought of even drinking it, “and I’ll make sure Dwalin has one for you every time he comes in.” 

“Wonderful,” Bilbo falsely enthused, holding his nose as he choked down the concoction, “and great tasting.” 

“Liar.” Óin immediately called him out, and Bilbo huffed as he thrust the glass back into the dwarf’s waiting hand. He was a liar— and the Valar help him, he would continue to be— but that did not mean that Óin had any right to decry his words in such a manner; even were the words an obvious bait. 

“Don’t do anything else that’ll cause you to backslide,” Óin stated after another few minutes of checking Bilbo’s body for whoever knew what, “but other than that, I can’t do much. Don’t sleep until tomorrow night.” 

“Great.” 

“Lad, it’ll keep you alive,” Óin barked, and Bilbo put his hands up in surrender. He knew that, but what about all of this made the dwarf think he would be anything less than aggrieved? 

“Thank you for your help,” he said, short and in a manner stating to all that he was done with this entire venture, thank you very much and good day. 

Óin— because Bilbo replied quite loud enough for the other to hear— chose to ignore his snipping, and gave both Bilbo and Dwalin a brusque nod before leaving. He swallowed back an apology until Óin had departed, and then— because it was entirely ineffective should he say something once the other was gone— chose to keep it swallowed. It was, of course, not the most virtuous of actions, but Bilbo had never pretended— to himself or to others— that he was a virtuous being. 

“Taking pain out on others, are we?” Dwalin asked in a tone all but superiorly smug— as if he were any better than Bilbo— and he scoffed rather than formulating a proper comeback. 

“He’s had worse,” Dwalin continued, all of a sudden garrulous in a way that he had never been precendently; it disoriented Bilbo in a way that not even the concussion could achieve. 

“What are you aiming for?” he asked cautiously and in the sanguine expectation that something horrible was _not_ about to materialize. 

“Nothing,” he assured, the faint ruddiness adorning the bridge of his nose raising Bilbo’s figurative hackles all the further, “but since I’m here: has Nori—” 

“Are you truly asking me to divulge what, if anything, Nori has said about you? Are you a hormonal tween or something?” 

“Ah, so he has said something,” Dwalin practically crowed, and Bilbo wondered if he— due to his injury or some other force of nature; in example, a wizard— had entered into a universe in which everything was shifted only slightly to the left, enough to disorient him, but not enough to actually make him question the differences. 

Weighing the pro of Dwalin exiting his tent forthwith and the con of Nori finding out he squealed, Bilbo found himself taking altogether too long to answer. But, well, if he were to delay the other— because Dwalin was shifting from foot to foot and Bilbo felt a fission of amusement in the other’s awkwardness— he would do so for a bit longer, a tranquil smile plastered on his face. Maybe now was the time; what would a virtuous being actually do? 

“Not much, really. Why? Does he have reason to say something about you?” So take it to the magistrate, he had no desire to covet virtue. 

“Sure, burglar,” Dwalin snorted, the overzealousness of his faux bluster overshadowing whatever he wished to portray, “you already played your hand.” 

“And I can see why you took up with a spy; opposites attract, I suppose.” 

Dwalin sneered— and really, despite their friendliness, that was the expression Bilbo was most used to seeing on the guard— before throwing a sack of food into Bilbo’s lap. 

“Food. Don’t let it be said that dwarrow aren’t hospitable.” Bilbo lifted a hand in thanks, watching Dwalin walk out— the lock clicking behind him with a certitude of finality— before rummaging through the provisions he had been provided. 

It was only once he had tucked into his meal, that Dwalin’s words saturated fully. _Dwarrow_. Because, of course, this would be Bilbo’s life— one moronic cultural faux pas after another. Damn dwarrow and their damn secrecy; it really was their own fault— like, who didn’t say anything when their companion was being idiotic? 

Well, he never did that, either. Maybe it was something they all had the need to work on. 

_Dwarrow_. He could scarcely believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the phrases/idioms I either altered or made up for hobbits and dwarrow make sense, contextually, except for one— the one that Nori does not understand and Bilbo does not bother to explain. 
> 
> So here is the full phrase and the meaning: 'wait for the rain' is a shortened, colloquial version of the more archaic Hobbitish phrase 'wait for the first rain before deciding what to plant.' The meaning of this can be loosely translated into: do not be overzealous and perform an action when you have not considered all potential outcomes. This phrase was originally reminder for one to be cautious, but it has evolved into a wish for good luck to a particularly foolhardy person.
> 
> If you have any questions about any other phrases they said, just pop me a note. (Or if they're not as self-explanatory as I hoped.)


	5. Re-creation of Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took Bilbo exactly three seconds before he realized this was absolutely nothing at all like conkers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time, I know— real life can be a bitch sometimes— but I am back once more with a whole new chapter! 
> 
> I hope, despite the three or so months I've been AWOL, you all still enjoy this. 
> 
> Special thanks, as always, to  vegalocity  for beta-ing!

The faint, rhythmic, incessant pound of metal against stone made Bilbo open his eyes in resignation. It was soothing, he supposed, and if one of the… dwarrow— he thought that was correct, but with only one example he could not be quite sure— stood as a counter-point, he would most likely be able to create a nice melody from it. But the sound would most likely cause a pernicious impact to blight the first time he had awoken in the last three days with nothing more than the lingering ache of his injuries; at least his thoughts were no longer demarcated in disjunctive dalliances, bandying about with no concern as to what needed to be done. 

Stretching out,— and were he prone to histrionics, he would throw himself upon his knees in thanks to whichever Vala graced him enough so he could finally, finally, take a full breath, which the bruises on his chest, after the first day, had previously made difficult to draw— the click in his jaw only causing him to wince slightly, he found that he could fault neither Dwalin nor Nori for making the authoritative decision to keep him imprisoned for a day longer than anticipated; indeed, were Bilbo a better sort, he would hasten to thank the both of them for the undeniable grand idea the extra day turned out to be. By tomorrow, he would be healed to the point where his injuries would seem negligible, and with his mental faculties proximate to those of before, well— he was becoming less unsure as to whether Nori’s plan would actually work. 

He checked his pocket for the cutters that Nori had smuggled in two days before— a habit he had picked up in his concussive delirium when his memory of acquiring the tool had kept slipping from his grasp— and his heart didn’t return to its normal pattern until the hard edge of one of the blades made contact with his questing fingertips. The metal warmed to his touch as he gripped his fist around the blades, watching for the point so as not to further harm himself, and there would be no evidence to imply otherwise should he attribute the gesture to a coping mechanism in an increasingly tenuous endeavor. Bilbo, regardless of the false equanimity the tool provided him and the knowledge that the longer he kept at it the more it would beget mental dependence, still found the thing quite useful— he might keep it after his foray into freedom. 

Dwalin would be here soon; if Bilbo could say one good thing about imprisonment, it would be the fact that he was able to sleep whenever he desired— he had already completed all he could, fingers still stiff from the delicate metal cutting that had taken six hours to keep surreptitious— and while he understood the concept that respite now did not make up for lack thereof in the future, he still found himself waking well past dawn. 

The evening previous had heralded the beginnings of his escape, Nori having had exited his cell with a wink and mellifluous ‘it’s coming along rather nicely!’ that did absolutely nothing for Bilbo’s countenance; though he knew his freedom was closer than ever, the waiting is what truly unsettled Bilbo— but it was the middle of the new guard’s shift, and soon Dwalin would come about to, ostensibly, extract more information from his person. He did not quite _know_ what sort of instrument the dwarf would foist upon him— and the bludgeoning aspect of Nori’s harebrained scheme was the only part that Bilbo found himself having consequential qualm with— but he hoped it would provide enough heft for a one-hit surprise attack, as Bilbo could not imagine being afforded another chance. 

A shuffling resounded through the thick canvas, and Bilbo straightened himself out as the lock keeping him inside unlatched and he caught sight, for the first time, of the guard to whom he would have to— and the Valar help him, but the dwarf was big— deliver a crushing blow; the blow would most likely be psychological, as well, if only due to the lost pride in being taken out by someone a foot shorter and around seven stone lighter than himself. 

“Yes?” he drawled out, giving the guard a speciously unimpressed once-over whilst thoroughly ignoring Dwalin, who watched the scene play out with only an aloof raise of his brow. 

“If you knew what was good for you, you would keep your mouth shut, halfling,” the guard snarled back, prompting Bilbo to roll his eyes in played-out exasperation. Bilbo found no leeway in the threat and, could he be fair with himself, in any other situation would find himself hard-pressed not to comply; as it were, however— and truly, this venture would have him forsake the aggregate of his prior paradigm of: it it feels wrong, do not do it— the completion of his needs could only be borne through his own precocious demeanor and the guards’ action it would undoubtedly give way for. 

“Unfortunately, I’ve never been one to do so— I’m quite certain that anyone I have conversed with could attest to that.” 

Bilbo took a moment too long to brace himself, the blow reverberating through his skull mere seconds before he had readied himself for the impact. The guard stopped, arm poised for another shot, as Dwalin let out a guttural stream of Khuzdul to belay the sword-enthused dwarf. 

“It’s no great wonder why dwarves do not have prisoners for long,” Bilbo spat, a haughty sniff lodged in the back of his throat as Dwalin gave him a warning look from over the guard’s shoulder. He was quite aware that everything he said would be used against him, and if he crossed a line, it would ensnare them all in another harebrained scheme that would go— most likely— further awry than what they had already cooked up; toeing said line, while taking precaution not to brashly obliterate it, however, was a mite more difficult than Bilbo had been expecting. 

It stood to reason, then, and especially with due consideration to his lack of physicality in comparison to dwarrow, that as the guard was already riled up, he should employ caution in regards to the furthering of his rhetorical plot. 

“Of course, the more likely reason is invariably much simpler— imprisonment is a fundamental exercise in tedium and most others in my current situation would expiate their sleights rather than endure this wholly insipid milieu,” Bilbo continued, contrived effervescence creeping into his inflection, “and _were_ I anyone else, I assure you that I would be doing exactly the same as those truly lucky fellows.” 

He shrugged, a sharp sigh escaping his nose as the guard’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightened, and made sure to keep an eye on the dwarf’s increasingly-whitened knuckles. 

“Do you believe that you are so apart from any other mortal that you can last our prisons?” 

“Mayhap those were the weaker among your opponents,” Bilbo replied, hurtling headfirst into just past this side of needling loftiness, licking at his lip as he considered Dwalin— the other, at this point, was a mere accessory, a witness to his and Dwalin’s scathing repartee.

“A provincial way of thinking, halfling, and, seeing as you’re sitting here spouting it, your capture seems to be my case in a singular point.” 

“Well, I would believe that treating prisoners with a modicum of respect was a universally acknowledged and civilized way of being, but I can see that higher culture has not graced your band of brutes.” 

“What is your interest in making me wroth?” Dwalin asked, leaning against the stone almost directly above from where Bilbo was sitting— posture having gone from almost militaristic precision to a laconic idleness that managed to look quite arrogant; Bilbo had always known that continued impressions of his more imperious relatives would do him good one day, and— were it according to those aforementioned relatives— this would be the situation most becoming of his childhood behavior. 

“Who has dared to guess my own intentions before I could? Bring them to me and I shall amaze with the rest of you at their gift of reading my thoughts.” 

He paused, clicking his tongue at Dwalin who, as if sensing an oncoming soliloquy of some sort, started to pick at his nails with a thin dagger that Bilbo had never seen before— of course, with the dragon’s hoard set free due to the death of its master, Bilbo would find himself unsurprised if some of the dwarrow traded up their weaponry, or just supplanted what they had lost along the journey with what they had already extracted from the veritable sea of precious treasures. At this point, as his path diverged far beyond his contractual obligation and far beyond any lingering form of homesickness, his only wish became one of being useful in a manner that was less… surreptitious than his own current employ. It was nothing more than a selfish wish, one borne from the encroaching, premonitory impression that the further he persisted into the center of this ploy, the less likely it became that any facts about his actual involvement, while believed, would be done so with such a heavy suspicion placed upon it, that Bilbo was absolutely sure he would not be able to muster it within himself to endure. 

“If, however,” Bilbo let a huff of breath escape— putting his own bet on the table in the motion, “none such a person exists, I’ll thank you not to belabor your mental capacities as to my intentions. 

“What I mean to say is,” he slowed his speech, as if taking care to ensure the guards could comprehend his statement, “I have absolutely no intention of making you angry, Master Dwalin; in fact, angering you is quite the opposite of my intent— how, were it a case of intentional needling, would I find myself in a better position to acquire my due should you have _less_ interest in taking my grievances to your king?

“Alas,” and at this he allowed his hand to wave haughtily in their general direction, “I know you did not come here in order to amuse me in repartee, but please allow me the leeway to guess as to the reason for your presence. You must realize that with my only company being during times of—” a pause, “—interrogation, should you wish to call it that, any small thing is becoming worthy of my amusement.” 

“Unfortunately for you,” Dwalin answered, ignoring the minute shift of the guard that Bilbo had no desire to learn the name of— rendering someone unconscious for a sufficient period of time was more difficult than the legends purported it to be, and Bilbo did not want to personify the guard lest his use of force have unforeseen consequences, “ _my_ intention is to let you do nothing of the sort. 

“Who are your cohorts?” 

“I quite thought that you had ceased that avenue of investigation.” He sighed at Dwalin’s impassive stare and rolled out his shoulders against the rock. “I have nothing for you.” 

“You are working with someone, or various someones, and we will find out who.” 

“Has something happened to the king?” He asked the question snidely, a vulpine smirk appearing as the tenuous script they had decided upon the day before started.

“Or,” he affected an aura of concern, “have you heard something worrying? I can scarcely imagine how difficult a time it must be for a displaced royal with, I’m quite sure, no concept of foreign affairs to rule a newly re-habitable kingdom on the outskirts of the civilized world.

“If you’re here, staring me down,” Bilbo finished, a slimy pleasure entering his tone, “then something must be worrying you. I take it, then, that you understood the information I so graciously provided you and investigated yourself— not so thoroughly as you still come to me in hopes of my further knowledge, but enough so that you understand treating me well might do your oh-so-benevolent royal family more good than harm. Well,” he equivocated, “more harm than they already face by virtue of their continued existence.” 

“Is that a threat?” 

The question came from the newly-instated recruit standing behind Dwalin and Bilbo found himself with less hesitance in ensuring the guard’s imminent, most likely embarrassing, duty to his kingdom. Dwalin, he was sure, would no doubt approve of bludgeoning a little more smarts into the fellow— maybe Bilbo should speak with him at a later point about testing the wits of the kings guard; he had no doubt in the skill required of the guards, he just honestly would find it altogether amusing and a sure way of ingratiating himself into a pack of dwarves he had certainty he would spend a fair amount of time with in the near future— had he his way, of course. 

“What an insipid question. Do you believe it to be?” 

Dwalin’s knuckle-dusters let out a small creak as he tightened his fingers into a fist, and Bilbo let out a grunt as a punch landed at his gut— all the speed but only half of the impact as Dwalin usually packed; the sound Bilbo let out, loathe as he to admit, was altogether more real than he had hoped for. Despite the obviously pulled punch, he definitely would be feeling the impact for a couple hours more at the least. 

Despite Bilbo’s many flaws— the majority of which he would agree, sanguine, with— in regard to his current venture, physical subterfuge had never been one of them; Dwalin delivered a light, cloth-wrapped item— the specifics of which were still a mystery to Bilbo— that he doubled against and stuffed underneath his waistcoat at Dwalin’s second blow. 

“You will be treated well if you give us information befitting of such treatment; who are you working with, halfling, and what do you know?” 

“And what would you do if I shan’t answer?” 

“I think the question is: what shall _you_ do if you do not answer? And the answer: the same as you are doing presently. We can keep you in prison as long as we like, send letters back to your hole in the ground to commiserate your death with your fellow halflings, and none shall be the wiser. 

“What do you know, _burglar_?” 

“I know,” Bilbo licked his lips, eyes darting from Dwalin’s own to the guard directly behind his captain and back once more, a grim nervousness set in his eyes before he cleared his throat, “I know that all I know comes from whisper and second-heard rumor.”

He shrugged weakly, as though unsure of the veracity of the information he had attained. “You understand that my self-imposed mission was wholly different than that of the Ironfists’.”

“Ironfist?” asked the secondary guard, and Bilbo pursed his lips in order to keep himself from chuckling— judging from Dwalin’s shiver-inducing glare, the dwarf agreed with Bilbo about the guard’s game face; he should be glad that Bilbo was not an actual threat to the royal line, otherwise he would have just been afforded a distinct advantage in their ‘negotiations.’ 

“Mmmn, maybe,” Bilbo hedged, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting is forehead against them to stare balefully at the guards above him, “but like I stated before— it all, every last bit of it, comes from sources whom I would deem less than absolutely trustworthy. So as to not muddy your investigational waters further, I believe it prudent to not further my tongue.” 

“Kelun,” Dwalin called out sharply, “cease advance!” The command stopped the guard in his tracks as Bilbo considered the fact that the Khuzdul seemed slightly less guttural to his ears than it had before— really, if he were forced to go back to the Shire fluent in Khuzdul with no hope of speaking it, he might actually die. 

That was why, he supposed, he must act in a manner befitting a future resident of Erebor; the irony of this, then, came to fruition in the realization that it was impossible to act in a befitting manner. So came his last option: unwavering loyalty to his mission, to the king of Erebor to whom he found his own in. 

Another sharp recrimination came out of Dwalin’s mouth, and without another word to Bilbo he turned heel and gestured for the other guard to follow him out. 

“Oh, so you don’t care about the Ironfists’ then,” Bilbo cajoled from his place on the ground, giving the young guard a sneering grin as the dwarf turned back to face him one last time, “or maybe your captain’s loyalty is somewhere other than his king. Loyalty is not always guaranteed from pasture to pen.” 

“Kelun!” came Dwalin’s voice from outside the tent. 

“I believe that this begs the question as to why he does not wish to hear the rumors,” Bilbo concluded haughtily, raising an eyebrow as the guard wavered. 

“You don’t know anything, halfling,” Kelun sneered— he looked suddenly beleaguered and Bilbo was hard-pressed not to make acknowledgement of the suddenly developed facial tic that the young guard could not suppress— locking the wire prison that Bilbo had already, in semantics, broken out of. 

He let out a breath as their footsteps faded and started singing a walking song softly. Shifting as to unstick the pouch from between his waistcoat and shirt, he let the item plop onto his lap, raising a brow as a corner of it became uncovered at the fall. The handle could mean anything, but he had the feeling Dwalin gave him the exact weapon that would allow him to not have to rely entirely on the element of ‘sneaking up behind your opponent and hope for the best ager the first blow.’ 

The slingshot felt at home in his hand and as he tested the elasticity and hold of the weapon, he almost failed to notice the attached note; it was short, spiked, and entirely in neither Dwalin’s hand nor their agreed upon code. 

_Just like conkers._

Bilbo could do nothing but roll his eyes, vaguely fond despite the exasperation vying for foremost attention in his mind, and pocketed the missive that, to anyone who had seen his handwriting, obviously came from Thorin. 

What he was intending to do— a half-cocked maneuver worryingly more invulnerable than anything else his mind might recall— was absolutely nothing at all like conkers— his intended target would be much easier to hit.

* * *

“Soon,” he murmured to himself, gazing fixedly through the high window of his cell— the light was at its highest point against the stone behind him, and Bilbo was well aware that the afternoon would soon fade into the early evening, which would mark a failed attempt to entice the guard to coming into his cell and another night of wasting away, the foreknowledge of danger dogging his every motion— whilst desperately grappling with the mounting recession of his mostly unacknowledged hope; the vim he, Dwalin, and Nori had experienced at the beginning of this undertaking— whatever might be construed in an enthusiasm bordering on hysterical fear at the consequence of failure— had started to atrophy and poking vigorously at it did nothing but make it rise up feebly in the air as if the mental prodding was the only force keeping it, however sickly, even the remotest bit alive. 

But after what Bilbo hazarded to guess as another hour of laying about and listening eagerly for the unmistakable sound of dwarfish footfalls, even his self-affirmations could not evoke the same falsity of faith that they had the previous times he had uttered them. Whistling thinly, he flipped his invisibility ring through his fingers like he had done countless times before with various coin and finally ceased his airy— for what was it if not flippant, translucent as the uncatchable haze surrounding dawn— optimism. 

Another night, he hastened to assure himself, could do no further harm than his absence had already elicited; Bilbo was more than cognizant of the traitors’ certitude in waiting out the remainder of their stay in the encampment in order to pose the maximum disarray when they decided to strike— Bilbo was unsure if the idea, bitterly ingenious as it were, could, in origin, have belonged to one of the nobles, or if an Ironfist had assuaged their covetous fervor for an approach immeasurably more clandestine in nature. In truth, whomever was culpable, so to speak, was doing him a favor at the moment, and once he figured out the identity of the individual, he would no doubt be inclined to offer his gratitude— this was not, of course, in the anticipation of some form of petty revenge, but rather to just see the befuddled expression and slow realization that their presumed rational hesitation wrought nothing less than their own downfall… Of course, it also might be exactly for petty revenge and nothing more; Bilbo supposed, in any case, it did not much matter if the outcome would remain the same. 

Briefly, he spared a thought as to where Dwalin was with his evening meal— before his journey he would not dare call the food they gave him a meal but was acutely aware it consisted of a heavier fare than some portions of his jaunt through the various mountain and wood—but delving further into the yawning expanse that made up his previous rumination became impossible as Bilbo’s amorphous thought transformed itself from errancy manifested unambiguously into a crescendo of echoing footsteps bearing closer to his cell. 

The slight dragging of a foot harkened the arrival of an unknown visitor, rather than Dwalin, and Bilbo furrowed his brow as he straightened up— the ring was transferred from his hand to his pocket and in its place rested a fairly sizable stone. It was only then that Bilbo let himself fully embrace the fact that of the three of them, none had actually planned for a timely escape period, or even the assured unconsciousness of the guard; weren’t dwarves at one with stone, or something to that fact? He honestly did not know what any of them were thinking when they obviously believed that a slingshot and a rock would be sufficient weaponry against a dwarven royal guardsman— regardless of his training, or lack thereof. But for some Valar-foresaken reason, his ability with a slingshot was the only thing between him and his ostensible freedom, and so he had to muster within himself a force— both in physicality and mentality— that could, and had to be, responsible for overpowering someone who was most likely descended directly from the very stone he would be throwing. 

Gaining force would be, undoubtedly, more difficult than he had previously accounted for, and it was not until the process of the guard unlocking his cell had already begun, that Bilbo developed something more than a fragmented, nebulous, writhing-thing of a plan. 

It was— as fate would be insidious enough to bring forth his needs almost immediately in the aftermath of his dissolution of wishing— the secondary guard, Kelun, having ‘convinced’ Dwalin to schedule a secondary shift; certainly, the rest of the guard would see the switch as suspicious, having only Bilbo’s escape and the guard’s guaranteed shirty behavior when interrogated as their only evidence— unless belief in their king’s safety would warrant items contrived which Bilbo honestly believed to be uncharacteristic of both the guards in their falsehoods and Dwalin in taking them in veracity. 

He smirked at the guard’s frivolous closing of the entrance behind him, but did not voice anything until after he had placed Bilbo’s meal a couple meters before him, backing away three steps as if unwilling to venture closer, but, as juxtaposition, unable to leave the cell. Kelun did not contain the sneer as he eyed Bilbo up, but his eyebrows twitched at every errant noise from outside of the three walls of canvas surrounding them; Bilbo cleared his throat, gave a light ‘hem hem’, and made sure the guard’s attention was focused wholly on him. 

“Well… isn’t this an incredible surprise. May I ask what brings you here tonight— Kelun, I believe it is.” He ensured that while giving off the semblance of a question, the gravitas in which it was delivered markedly denoted Bilbo had already fathomed up any response the guard could plausibly envisage. 

“None of your business,” Kelun replied, to which Bilbo nodded— an unflappably condescending motion that would, hopefully, assert dominant footing in a situation he felt himself continually slipping upon. 

And while he was quite sure the gesture did precisely nothing at all for purposes of intimidation, it did serve Bilbo well for Kelun’s not so egregious assumption that Bilbo knew, by some as of yet unknown means, more than he had been so blithely confessing to— how little that actually wrought; the young, ambitious guard— no matter how hesitantly he might portray himself— longed to do nothing more than to inquire about the hobbit’s observation regarding his captain. 

That would be, without any modicum of a doubt and for all of Bilbo’s glee, his biggest misstep. 

“I would disagree,” Bilbo answered, his tone taking a sharp dive into pith, “I would, in actuality, care to posit an entirely different reason than that you just belied to me.”

Without pausing to let the guard utter a word in edgewise, he continued. 

“I actually believe that you have also noticed some— shall we say suspicious?” He tapped his lips lightly with the tip of his finger as though re-considering his choice of words, “Yes, suspicious is the correct terminology— some suspicious things about your captain.” 

“Only from what you’ve said,” the dwarf sneered back, and Bilbo had to pause for a moment as he put off the airs of choosing his words with caution. 

“If my words are your only source of information,” he began obliquely as he rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment— a movement usually reserved for when he had been reading for so long the world went quiet around him and the words could do nothing more than blur into a linguist’s nightmare on the page before him, “then it seems unlikely that you would take a shift not your own in order to speak with me.” 

Bilbo held up a hand to forestall whatever the guard might say in response; there was no doubt that Kelun was on his last season before the switch, but Bilbo had the needling suspicion that should his demeanor change in any fashion that could be construed as mollifying, the guard’s—and really, it was disheartening that no one else was available to tell the pun of a century to— guard would go up, thus making Bilbo’s plans all the more difficult to advance. 

Kelun’s face became inscrutable, even to a hobbit who prided himself in knowing how to interpret over three hundred distinct facial tics, but even through his shuttered expression he gestured for Bilbo to go on. 

It oughtn’t have, but the guard’s sudden impassivity scattered what Bilbo had prepared to say next— he could not let himself be seen as scrambling, but he found a question sprawling down from his mouth in a more hurried manner than he intended. 

“What have you seen from him?” 

“What do _you_ know?” Kelun volleyed, and Bilbo had to give him due credit— despite the rough first impression, the guard had surprisingly quick-wits about him. 

“Shall we do one for one until we run out?” he asked rhetorically, “I’ll begin, then, yes?

“On shift I have heard him make mention of Ironfists— this was, of course, before my obvious gaffe earlier today. Did he act as though the information were unknown to him?” 

When suggesting they trade information, Bilbo did not actually imagine Kelun reciprocating in any deliberate way. Of course, his recent past would suggest that he was nothing more than a fool whose reckonings of the future were worse than those of his great, great-aunt, Cassiandria, so it was of little matter to him when instead of question, Kelun simply replied with his own ‘odd encounter’ with the captain of the guard. 

“I think he placed something into the lining of the canvas,” Bilbo responded with, “for my other interrogator to pick up.” 

“Do you know who he is?” Kelun asked suddenly, a note of urgency in his voice that was most certainly not there just a few seconds ago. 

“Yes,” Bilbo responded, “he’s told me his entire backstory in between bouts of enhanced interrogation techniques. No, I don’t have any information about him. Why?” 

“That’s of no matter to you,” he snapped back, before taking a slow breath. Bilbo watched him with an almost morbid fascination; this conversation with Bilbo, he supposed, was the guard’s version of ‘the enemy of my enemy,’ or at least felt as though something about the entire situation was slightly off. 

“You have nothing to do with the king, do you?” 

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m not here to lay siege upon your king and his ilk,” he supplied easily, casting a wry look about his present quarters, “but I must admit to wondering if receiving what is owed to me is quite worth all this kerfuffle.” 

“Where did he hide it?” The non-sequitur threw Bilbo for a beat, but he managed the question with an easy grace his slightly shaking fingers definitely did not get the memo to. 

“Just to the left of the locking mechanism,” he replied, scarcely daring to breathe— would Kelun truly turn his back to him for a long enough period of time for Bilbo to make his escape? The young guard must already be deeply mistrustful of Dwalin’s present motives for him to even entertain Bilbo’s words as the truth. 

Unbelievably— and he almost forgot to start preparing himself for the next few minutes in sheer incoherency of the situation— Kelun made an about-face and marched, decidedly and broad-shouldered, to where Bilbo had indicated. He ran his hand across the seams slightly higher than his eye-level, and Bilbo stood up as he took in a sharp breath, grabbing the other two rocks in his hands whilst doing so. 

“He put it about a foot from the base,” he added, taking the two steps to reach for his meal as Kelun glanced back at him. 

The guard hummed out an acknowledgement and hunkered down to look for a tear in the dim light of the cell. Bilbo exhaled, closing his eyes for a scant moment despite his crash-course education in not giving your enemy an easy advantage over you, and as he opened them he brought one of the rocks to the slingshot and placed it snugly into the hide making up the small pocket. 

_Just like conkers._

* * *

It took Bilbo exactly three seconds after the first rock hit the nerve point at the back of Kelun’s neck before he realized this was absolutely nothing at all like conkers and, for all his egocentrism earlier, rather more difficult than his previously mentally feigned ease. 

Kelun scarcely had time to whirl around in bewilderment than Bilbo’s second rock hit him dead-center in his left eye. 

“Wha’ the—?” Bilbo heard him start, before his final rock hit the guard in the temple and downed him. 

Due to the simple fact that he had an inexact time as to how long Kelun would be unconscious, he skirted around his heaped form in a manner that most would call skittish— Bilbo simply deemed it necessitous to his fluctuating constitution— while giving the guard a half-nod of sympathy that no one would know of but himself; he found that the gesture made him feel a sense of contrived civility after inflicting a surprise ambush upon a dwarf doing nothing more than undertaking a noble plan of attack in service of his king— the hypocritical superficiality of his action did not escape his attentions but there was, to his aggrieved misfortune, nothing at all he could do to assuage his last vestige of conscience. 

Directly to the right of the main entrance to his cell lay his escape route, and Bilbo thanked anything and everything he could think upon as he reached into his pocket and grabbed at his ring of invisibility— he took a breath, because no matter how useful his ring was for him, the longer he went without its use, the further his unease spread through his veins— Bilbo did not know whether it was due to his cessation of use or disquietude of beginning its use once more. 

The shift from color— no matter how muted in the purely ambient light he received from the high window— to greyscale was disquieting as always, and though Bilbo was well acquainted with folk who could not perceive the color in the world around them, the disjointed nature of reality that his ring brought seemed a titch different than those suffering from blindness to color. 

He made a tiny hole through the outer canvas with his cutters to glance out of and, in seeing no one in the proximate vicinity, dragged the cutters from the hole down to the ground and sidled, arms tight to his side, out of the tent. Small cuts littered whatever skin was vulnerable from the sharp bits of cut metal wiring, and a time or two he choked on his own breath as a piece of his clothing snagged and it took longer than a second to unsnarl himself. 

Eventually— and really, it could not have been any more than twenty seconds, but every passing second was agony when his goal was of a clandestine variety— he managed to untangle the last of his person out from the hold of his former prison, and took in a lungful of crisp air before one of the loosened canvas pieces flapped gently, for nary a second, in the breeze. Soon someone would take note of the displacement and alert a guard, or Kelun would awaken and alert a guard, or any number of things along the way, and Bilbo had an unusually likely chance of being caught again should he tarry longer than necessity granted him. 

All Bilbo had to do was find Nabíd or a cohort of his, and follow them to where’er they lead. The plan that he had— which only Nori had an idea of so as a more colorful reaction from the others could take place if necessary— only needed knowledge of their meeting place and his physical presence there when such a meeting was actually taking place. 

What would happen next was, as his grandmother used to say, brewing after having imbibed the last of your batch— up to the hands of fate, time, and faith in rote procedure. 

He allowed himself to sidle against the side of a tent as he got to the center of the camp, resting the back of his head against now-familiar thick canvas, and cast his gaze upwards— though the sky was still light, both the dusk and the overcast blocked out any harsh sunbeams. The tops of the few trees surrounding the craggy mountainside swayed gently in the wind, and every few moments a gust drifted down far enough for Bilbo to feel. A must hung in the air, and every time the wind blew to the west, a hint of smoke covered the scent of an encroaching storm; when he closed his eyes, it felt like early summer in the Shire— a late season storm and a controlled burn— but an icy blast hitting him from the side of the mountain shattered whatever illusion he might have mustered up in preparation to live without respite. 

Because from now there would be no more sleeping without the comfort of invisibility, no more breaking in an abandoned tent in hopes of being able to breathe fully for twenty or so minutes— everything Bilbo did would be for the sake of what he still had yet to accomplish, and that meant he must subsist on total devotion, invisible rests in various corners, and whatever small comforts cram and jerky would provide him. It would be uncomfortable, and most likely abominably unrelenting, but as always, Bilbo found himself quite unable to do anything other than give himself unconditionally to a cause he would most likely become nothing more than an unknown, parsimonious, probable-martyr to; had he a chaise couch within reach he would assuredly throw himself upon it in a fit of indignation— the glass of Buschwort’s cheapest moonshine dangling from his fingers spilling not a drop as he flung his body down for a sulk. 

Luck be on the side of his good fortune,— at least for the sake of posterity, if disregarding his petty, personal comforts— however, and there appeared nothing to distract himself from his avowed task. 

A horn sounded, two half notes, followed by a triplet of sixteenths, and though Bilbo was not at all versed in the varied meanings of horn calls, he could guess that from the direction it originated from, the matter had everything to do with the discovery of his escape. Though Dwalin would be obligated to punish Kelun in some way, if only because he had to keep up the pretense,— his weight the same as what the rest of them had to bear—Bilbo found himself anxious of the guard’s peers blaming him with something more sinister than simple inattention to protocol and lack of real experience. Gossip, he knew, would pass from mouth to mouth no matter the cause, but the circumstances of Bilbo’s escape would lend credence to the rumors, especially for those who did not know of all of the facts. 

Dwalin stormed past the mouth of Bilbo’s hiding space, with Dáin trailing half a step behind, and his entourage flanking the both of them as they made headway to where Bilbo had been ostensibly trapped within less than half an hour ago. He wondered, as Dáin’s cloak trailed out of view, if the Lord of the Iron Hills knew what, in actuality, the goings-on were, or the extenuating circumstances encompassing them all— or, as Nori put forth, his true thoughts on his ascension to the throne should Thorin and heirs meet an untimely demise. 

Which, speaking of— he had best set off and locate Nori, his intended first point of contact before before ingratiating himself into his role in totality. 

The spy, by either some preternatural consequence of Bilbo’s obviously easy-to-convey innermost thoughts or Nori’s own uncanny ability to be _exactly_ where he was needed, lazed towards him as Bilbo branched off the main path; by Kelun’s ignorance of Nori— most likely shared by the rest of the guard, as Bilbo found it likely the compatriots would share their knowledge of an outsider and potential threat— the facts surrounding the spy would likely be disputable depending on the place of origin, which meant that after the initial shock of Bilbo’s escape wore off, Nori would most probably be looked at on a higher threat level than before. So, then, it was now or never— and for the third time in his life, that phrase meant more than just a clichéd expression— and Bilbo much preferred it to be now, no matter how brief their conversation may be. 

Tapping Nori twice on the arm, firmly enough as the dwarf passed him to show it was more than a piece of errant nature but not hard enough to throw the other off-balance and risk another seeing it, he waited for the spy to slow his pace before tugging on Nori’s slackened fingertips to show the other he was still keeping in step with him. 

“Good show, burglar,” Nori muttered, managing to keep his lips from moving the entire time he spoke— Bilbo was duly impressed and found it yet another thing he endeavored to learn when he found the time. 

“Sure,” he replied, more of a breath than actual words; Nori seemed to comprehend him well enough as the dwarf grunted in reply and swerved off the path as though to make a facilities use of a fairly exclusive cluster of shoulder-level brush. 

“Your dagger,” Nori stated, a little louder now that they were covered in a modicum of privacy— it felt better in his hand when he grabbed it than he expected, even just the feel of the scabbard filled him with a small bit of confidence he did not have before— and though he looked vaguely perturbed as the so-called letter-opener disappeared into nothingness before him, he gave voice to none of his inevitably tasteless jokes that he would usually tell ad nauseam whenever he found himself in a marginally uncomfortable situation. 

“Thanks.” It was hearty and after affixing the scabbard to his belt loop, Bilbo drew the dagger from its sheath and felt the grip in his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist a few times in order to find the hilt’s ideal spot. 

“Hmmn,” Nori answered, and he was wearing a peculiar expression when Bilbo deigned to look up from his impromptu practice. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, instead of going with his gut feeling and pretending to not see his friend’s unusual demeanor. 

“Nothing, nothing. You’re happy to have your dagger back.” 

“It’s served me well,” Bilbo said slowly, wondering where Nori was going with this and if they would have enough time for the inevitable sniping Nori’s real answer would no doubt ensure. 

“It has.” A grin was Bilbo’s only warning that what Nori said next might be construed as controversial, and he beached himself for the absolute worst that could be interpreted from his previous words. 

“I can’t imagine your past self to be happy to have it back.” 

Bilbo blinked. 

“Oh, is that all? Most likely not, you’re right— but my past self would undoubtedly like and dislike many a thing I have since changed opinion upon. It is, I believe, one of the things all sentient creatures do as we age and mature— some species more slowly than others due simply to life-span differences, of course, but we all change, all the same.” 

“How esoteric,” Nori drawled back, “are you attempting to speak in tongues in preparation for what comes next?” 

“In order to better understand you and your ilk, actually,” Bilbo replied, saccharine as he pushed the dagger back into its sheath. 

“What else is needed?” he continued, swiveling his head around once, twice, three times to check his immediate surroundings. 

“Nothing— this is your last time to talk in person; you know where to go to resupply?” 

Bilbo nodded, before letting out a swear-filled ‘yes.’ He had forgotten, for a moment, that he was invisible. That was everything, then— the next time he would be able to speak with someone with full knowledge of his situation was at this very moment; encrypted notes, of course, would be passed along between their chain— in hidey-holes made and known by only he, Nori, and Dwalin— but, for the most part, this would be it. Bilbo was, as his silence stretched out and Nori’s eyesight started to shift around as though unsure if Bilbo was still there, getting increasingly melodramatic the longer this ordeal went on— all the more, he resolved, for this nonsense to be with over with forthwith. 

“I have nothing else,” he added, clearing his throat after. 

“Okay.” Nori nodded, looking slightly past Bilbo’s left ear but close enough to eye-contact for the hobbit to understand his intent. “Stone keep you steady.” 

“You as well,” Bilbo answered, squeezing Nori’s arm before departing. 

He heard, walking away, Nori undo the ties of his breeches and stifled a laugh; of course the spy was actually going to take a piss— he would be able to say so to whomever, is anyone, asked without actually lying. It was clever— and not something Bilbo would have ever considered thinking of before today, let alone having done something eerily similar many a time in his youth in order to avoid flat-out lying to whichever adult inquired as to his whereabouts. 

Though he had nothing more to say to Nori, Bilbo wished he had stayed a little longer and the feeling that he had left all too soon plagued him as he entered the main part of the dwarrow’s encampment once more and started loitering around Nabíd’s previous haunts— it had only been a few days, and there had been no true suspicion placed on the noble, so he had no reason to feel threatened enough to move from where he had been holding his ‘court’ with his fellow dissension sympathizers; those that hung onto his words most likely did not know of the extent Nabíd would go to see his aims furthered, and Bilbo entreated to any who would listen that once they learned the extent of Nabíd’s true betrayal, they would see the error of their ways.

In this truth, Bilbo had to take his belief from Thorin’s words; dwarrow were, more likely than not, to solve their intra-community issues via a fight— either by weapon or by craft— or drink of some sort while heavier disputes were solved through an intermediary— usually whomever was holding open court that day, or if far from the courts, their magistrate. This sort of political intrigue, though prevalent enough to warrant having a spymaster and various underlings, did not usually coalesce into multiple intricate plots to assassinate a king and his chosen heirs— Bilbo was assured that, truly, ‘this was an extraordinary circumstance all around, and honestly, burglar, would you cease glaring at me in such a manner I should know what I’m speaking of— I had to learn the royal history dating back to Durin I when I was a lad.’ 

Thorin had not been amused when Bilbo pointed out that being the first in a matter such as this was not something one usually wanted to speak of in quite that cavalier of tone. 

Nabíd, mustering it within himself, Bilbo was sure, to grace his hanger-ons with his presence as the last rays of sunlight shone through the darkening overcast of the dully moonlit sky, heralded his own arrival with a harsh bracket of laughter, the sharp staccato serving to both grate against the ears and show his newfound availability. Without letting these extraneous circumstances color his entire perception Nabíd, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel himself wanting to make himself physically sick at the display of sheer egoism the noble dwarf exhibited. Of course— and of this fact he was absolutely certain— should he express any notion of the sort to Nabíd, the other would genuinely not comprehend where his complaints stemmed from; in another life, Bilbo mused, his own position in life might have turned him out in such a manner— he was glad, then, for the small mercies the Valar granted his person and the exceptional skills his parents employed in rearing it after. 

The first dwarf to sidle next to Nabíd was Frúd, and Bilbo found himself leaning in to make note of whatever their conversation might consist of. A discordant tone of a fiddler warming his fingers and bow up took away the beginnings of Frúd’s question. 

“—ting so late?” he finally honed his hearing into, internally thanking whoever made the pointed complaint about the volume of the untuned instrument. 

“The halfling escaped,” and Bilbo experienced a flash of disassociation, briefly checking behind himself for the aforementioned hobbit to whom capture, he was certain, was of the utmost importance. After realizing, and sighing in exasperation at his own ineptitude, that _he_ was the hobbit in question, he re-focused in on the conversation in question. 

“I thought—” Frúd stopped himself in light of, Bilbo was certain, the other’s abrupt, acerbic, absolute attention. 

“What?” 

“Nothing, Nabíd, I just believed— erroneously, I’m sure— that the halfling told you some information of importance. At least, you implied as such yesterday.” 

Bilbo furrowed his eyebrows together, wondering where in his cryptic advances did Nabíd glean information of such importance, but as a dull flush appeared on the nape of his neck, Bilbo knew it was only the dwarf’s way of saving grace in a situation where his control was precarious at best, and he was beginning to understand just how close he was to losing everything he had spent decades trying to gain. He wondered, somewhere in the vast recesses of his brain where his processing became more of a subconscious endeavor than anything else, if the lies Nabíd had told of him would hinder his future arrangements, and if so, how Bilbo might use Nabíd’s lies to his own advantage— the first manifestations of a plan began to form in response to his exiguous musings. 

“Yes, and the information I have received has absolutely nothing to do with the guards that will be roaming who knows where in the night and early morning!” Nabíd, to his credit, took only a moment to calm himself from the half-shout his last few words had become. 

“If we have the meeting later we’re less noticeable.” 

And, honestly, it was as though the Ironfists wanted these nobles to get caught— even the most proclaimed virtuous of the hobbits knew that by the wee age of twelve or so. But really— and he raced through his memories, of all the information he had been privy to over the course of his time here at the side of the mountain— were the Ironfists in actuality attempting to get the nobles caught for some reason? That would, on the surface, seem anthesis to their usual mindset… but if something agitated them enough to pose them counter to their prevailing nature, then maybe. 

The question then became what, if anything and if Bilbo’s vague rumination held any merit, the Ironfists had that would inure them to the Durin’s live over the freedom of a haphazard conglomerate of nobles— if it actually _was_ something more than sheer theories of an idle mind prone to find accreditation in cabal-held plots. 

“We will talk in the morn,” Nabíd snarled at Frúd, pasting a toothy grin on his face as a dwarf that Bilbo did not know called out his name— the lack of a proper end to their conversation seemed to leave Frúd consternated, and his features twisted for a split-second before one of Nabíd’s hanger-ons turned to face him. 

Still, though, the shorter dwarf left in the clear, unvoiced, dismissal; Nabíd— lucky for his ego, Bilbo would hazard a guess— was left alone for but a handful of seconds, the time it took for someone peering gracelessly over their shoulders to notice he was alone and saunter over to the noble. Their conversation was of no importance to his mission, some asinine gossip about some dwarrowdam’s son and his chosen craft— or, if Bilbo were to believe it, his mother’s chosen _for_ him craft and his not quite ineptitude for it; it was absolutely the scandal of the month. 

Nights— and at the very thought Bilbo found himself hard-pressed to bit back a sigh— if all were like the one unfolding before his gaze, would be the apex of his harrow; the simple fact of the matter was that while Bilbo, like any good hobbit, enjoyed his fair bit of gossip, even he could not find a modicum of sympathy in metaphorical old biddies circling like carnivorous birds on dying flesh. 

He took in another breath and made himself comfortable for the long haul— the first night would be the worst, he was sure of it. After tonight it would be easier for everyone involved in these idiotically tangled details.

* * *

Guards passed through the encampment at a higher rate than previously and really, if Bilbo did not have the power of invisibility, he would either be hightailed and gone, or the dumbest hobbit to have ever escaped punishment. Despite telling himself complete vigilance was unnecessary, he still found himself unable to fall asleep, the rhythmic breathing of the dwarves surrounding him putting him into that in-between drowse of awake and asleep that left him mostly insensate but still minimally aware— though considered rest in a pinch, it was definitely not the type most sensible persons would prefer. 

Breakfasting on cram when everyone else ate a porridge of some sort was a lesson in contrarian desire for Bilbo; though seemingly disparate things, he was both jealous of the hot meal the dwarrow received and also lucky to not have to eat what looked, and most likely was, leftover and re-heated from the morning before. The chatter amongst the long tables was louder than usual, but the voices themselves seemed hushed— there was a buzz throughout the mess and furtive looks at any of the guard, who seems to be the ones doing most of the talking, as secondary listeners turned to their own neighbors and continued the chain down the individual tables and around the perimeter of the room. 

There was talk about him, of the guard, Kelun, of the mysterious dwarf who was Bilbo’s secondary interrogator— and he seemed to be correct in assuming that Nori was a virtual unknown entity to most— and even some talk of Dwalin, though that talk was hastily broken whenever it rose higher than a whisper. It appeared that the consensus of his whereabouts was: gone, and Kelun’s involvement was: inept and overeager to be seen as hard-working. Nori was: likely to be involved in some way— and Bilbo had to give the gossip-mill a hand for their accuracy, no matter how sporadic— and Dwalin, thank the Valar for his impeccable hearing because the talk became almost ostentatiously quiet, was: still remembering how to control his forces; or, on the fringe of opinions overheard, was: in on the halfling’s escape— after all, he _did_ employ that other dwarf to help the interrogation. As to the accuracy of that bit of gossip, Bilbo would not give anything for— Dwalin’s cover failing would, more than any other being caught, bugger them over. 

Lost as he became in the happenings of the previous night and earlier this morning, Nabíd’s farewell to his table mates was almost missed by Bilbo. It was only by sheer luck in turning that direction, did Bilbo notice him standing up to head for the exit; he swore, edging his way against the walls to the exit the dwarf was heading to. A swift departure, however, was not one of the noble’s specialities, and Bilbo found himself loitering for three or so minutes before Nabíd’s social card for the morning had been filled; Nabíd left the tent at the exact moment Gíni entered— between them was no further acknowledgement than Nabíd grunting his thanks as the other let him pass through first, Bilbo trailing his greatcoat at such an incredibly close distance that he, a palpitation of atmospheric disquiet surging through his nerves, held in his breath as not to make the air around him stir.

Nabíd paused for a moment just outside of the entry-way— his head tilted a few degrees to the right as though trying to sense some unknowable but unmistakable force— and Bilbo swerved, on the verge of collision with the dwarf’s sturdy back, to the left. The ground, dry earth settling once more to the top as the fortuned rain never fell, coughed up a flurry of dust, and Bilbo thanked Nabíd’s own sense of impropriety at not immediately turning around when he felt something amiss— the noble sensing his presence was one thing, but actually seeing a seemingly supernatural force in its most damning moment was quite another. 

It took another few breaths, but eventually Nabíd proceeded to make his trek to where Bilbo hoped would be their later-than-usual place of meeting. Their destination seemed all the more clear as the path they strode down became increasingly familiar to Bilbo’s, unashamedly spoken of, untrained-to-minute-detail eye, and though his sight and feet did not falter— he successfully managed to navigate every obstacle that came into his path with grace and reticence— his mind found itself cast and caught upon reassurance that he would prevail in this venture or expire in failure of. That particular turn of phrase, however, was a mite more of a realistic outcome than when one usually uttered it. 

Blue and silver caught his peripheral, and with the acknowledgement and understanding of the colors came back his awareness— his thoughts sucked abruptly and harshly through a plumbing tube of some sort, disorienting him for terse flash before he came back into himself— of the world around him. With his regained mindfulness of the world animate, came his newly-minted reaction of Thorin in his proximate vicinity— he gawked about to catch a glimpse of the king, hoping that despite his rubbernecking Thorin took Óin’s prescription of rest to heart, and nodded resolutely when he noticed that while there were not more guards on duty, those that were on shift were so to a heightened degree. 

Thorin did not make an appearance— and despite himself, Bilbo was disappointed— but Nabíd hurried past the royal enclosure as though someone it contained within its walls knew of his treachery; Bilbo would not find himself taken aback if Dwalin operated various pairs of eyes for whenever the noble dwarf made an appearance near where Thorin and kin rested. In fact, he would find it all the more doubtful if Dwalin claimed to not maintain an unobtrusive network of lookouts in the case of events such as these— to Bilbo he had always conveyed the impression of being a primarily paranoia-motivated individual. 

They managed to pass the cluster of tents unobtrusively— or at least covertly enough for Nabíd to go forth instead of feeling the need to double back in unease of being followed by some nameless shadow— and even Bilbo, once they cleared the easy hearing-distance of the overenthusiastic, hyper-vigilant guard force, felt himself walking easier the further away he found himself from them. Closer to the end of the encampment that they walked, the dwarrow’s stories of what had been happening as of late became considerably more embellished than even the third or fourth retelling in the mess, and Bilbo wrung his hands in lieu of scoffing at the immeasurably erroneous account of what he had been present for first-hand. One day, maybe— and if the Valar were on his side for a considerable time— the accurate narrative would be put in the place of the ahistorical mumblings popping up at an alarming rate. 

A group of three already-present dwarves stopped speaking the moment Nabíd came into view, and Bilbo— though his mind went automatically to the explanation that they were confiding, within one another, secret doubts and nefarious dealings— knew they were most likely discussing, as everyone else seemed to be, his own disappearance from his cell the evening before. Either that, or— as his eyes narrowed in perplexing time with Nabíd’s— they were debating about Frúd’s and maybe their own, doubts in Nabíd and his purported leadership. 

“Glad to see you early,” Nabíd greeted them, “but I hope we’ll wait until the others appear before we start.” 

The other three, as intended, took his statement as order and kept soundless, their shifting the only noise coming from their direction; despite their silence, their expressions to one another— along with the bits of Iglishmêk they used when Nabíd was turned away— said all about their discontent that words could not. 

It was only a few minutes later that the rest of the syndicate showed up; Bilbo let out a heavy breath as Gíni did not arrive with the rest, but by the way Nabíd nodded decisively after looking as though he made a head-count, his arrival was not to be expected. 

“The next step is ready to implement,” he began, holding his hands up as though his gesture would enrapture the others to the ingenuity of his words. His expression darkened as his announcement did not receive the obviously intended reaction. 

“Where’s the Ironfist?” Brúd asked, and though Frúd scowled at his brother, he pointedly did not complain as he had done previously. 

“He will not be joining us,” Nabíd answered stiffly, before clearing his throat and continuing with his earlier announcement. “Now, some of you may be asking what our next step actually pertains within it—,”

“Why won’t he be here, then?” It came from one of the stouter dwarves, and Bibo turned to face Nabíd just as his eyes flashed with a fire on the scale of Smaug’s own effervescent rage. 

“He has no need to plan the aftermath with us— he will be gone,” was Nabíd’s snapped back answer and rather than mitigating the palpable concern the others were projecting, it served to only make worse their shifting and hemming. 

Bilbo took a final breath, placing himself a solid three or so meters behind and slightly to the left of Nabíd’s taut form, and fiddled with the ring keeping him invisible from their eyesight. Closing his eyes for a moment, he let his pupils find the heavens without seeing them, and wished for a luck he would be hard-pressed to need so badly again. 

“But how will we—?” the same dwarf began, and Bilbo cleared his throat loudly as he slid his ring off of his finger. 

“I believe that’s something I can help you with,” he stated pleasantly, the slight upward quirk of hips lips betraying nothing but gentle amusement. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”


End file.
